


What Lies Behind

by kdm103020, xinsomniac1101x (xCapsiclexShellheadx)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Steve, Oblivious Tony, double identity porn, eventually, they figure it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdm103020/pseuds/kdm103020, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCapsiclexShellheadx/pseuds/xinsomniac1101x
Summary: Four months after the Battle of New York, Steve Rogers still hasn't managed to find his footing.  The new century is strange and upsetting, and he appears to have no purpose in it.  But when SHIELD sends him to liaise with the director of Stark Industries, his life starts to change in ways he could never imagine.Or, the MCU-rooted AU, in which Steve and Tony both still maintain their secret identities.





	1. A Mission

**Author's Note:**

> “The director will see you now.”

Steve looks up in the direction of the voice that’s just spoken to him.   The secretary’s soft tones have startled him out of his reverie, but he tries to cover his surprise by standing quickly to his feet.

It’s no wonder that he’s nervous.  He’s got a lot riding on this meeting.

In the almost two months since the Battle of New York; he’s tried to find some way to bring himself to terms with being displaced almost seventy years in time. In some sense, the Chitauri invasion helped. It’s utterly horrible that an alien army invaded New York (and some days he still has a hard time believing it actually happened), but the attack gave him purpose and a reason to wake up in the morning. Yet as dramatic as the whole invasion was, the entire confrontation played out in over a course of three days.  The Avengers, who admittedly functioned well under pressure, disbanded after seeing Loki off to Asgard, under the impression that they would assemble “when they were needed.”  Fortunately, nothing has yet come up that requires them to reunite.  

Whatever brief purpose he’d found in this century disappeared with the disbandment of his team.  Now that that’s been taken away, his existence in this century is aimless and he doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to do. The prolonged stillness makes him realize truly how alone he is in this strange new world.

Of course, he resolved himself a long time ago to a somewhat solitary existence.  That was the deal, after all, when he agreed to Operation Rebirth. Captain America was always meant to be a symbol more than an actual human being, so Steve Rogers needed to disappear for the legend to live on.  A few people knew the man under the mask, of course – Bucky, the commandos, Peggy, Howard, his superior officers.  But aside from those select few, very few people made the connection between scrawny, sickly little Steve Rogers and Captain America, super soldier.

To be honest, he sort of preferred the discretion.  The only people in his life who truly mattered to him, loved him for who he was. Which was always more than enough and the relative anonymity allowed him a modicum of freedom during his personal time.  With the cowl, he could be Captain America, the soldier his country needed; without it, he could still be Steve, a normal guy from Brooklyn.  His body might’ve belonged to the US government, but his face has always been his own.

Ironically, the very anonymity that once gave him freedom has backfired since he woke up.  Everyone loves the man in the mask. Especially, the Avengers who helped save New York, but no one knows a thing about Steve.  Captain America is allowed to be shell-shocked, but Steve has no visible reason for being completely out of touch with the world around him.

And it doesn’t help that Fury won’t put him to work. SHIELD’s been nothing but accommodating so far: setting him up with an apartment and providing him with historical information on the past seventy years. Nonetheless, Fury insists that SHIELD is more of an intelligence organization than a military outfit, and Captain America’s traditional method of punching first and asking questions later doesn’t exactly fit with their standard method of operation. More to the point, Captain America can’t exactly go on covert ops, since the giant shield and uniform might throw up a couple of red flags.  No, if Steve’s going to be working for SHIELD (outside of the Avengers, at least), it’s going to have to be as Steve and not as Captain America.  He’s not quite sure how to feel about that.  

Fury promised to think about putting him in the field. But as of yet, nothing’s happened. Steve needs that to change as soon as possible.  Despite his qualms about working without his shield and alter ego, he’s still a soldier, and one desperately in need of a mission.

After all, if you take away the soldier, all that’s left is the relic.

That’s why he’s so excited that Fury’s asked for a meeting. After nearly two months of waiting, maybe the director has finally decided how to add him to the SHIELD duty roster. Honestly, he’ll do anything at this point. He doesn’t care if he spends most of his life bouncing back and forth between two identities.  So long as he has a purpose again, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

This idea in mind, he enters the room the secretary has indicated.

He walks into Fury’s spacious office and sees the man himself sitting behind a large metal desk. The dark skinned, one-eyed man rises as he enters the room and moves to greet him.

“You asked to see me, sir?” Steve asks.

“Yes, I did,” Fury replies extending his hand for a handshake. The two men shake hands, and Fury gestures to one of the visitor’s chairs, stating, “Sit down Captain.”

Steve moves to occupy the appointed seat, and Fury crosses back to his own chair. The two men stare at one another for a moment, eyes sizing each other up before the SHIELD director breaks the silence.

“So,” he asks, “how are you doing?”

“Sir?” Steve replies, somewhat confused at the informal question.

“Rogers, eight weeks ago, you woke up from a seventy-year ice nap. Ten days later, you fought an alien army from outer space. Stuff like that would probably throw most men. Hell, I’m surprised you’re not curled up in a ball somewhere. So, I’ll ask you again. How are you doing?”

Steve paused, trying to find a way to sum up the past few weeks. Somehow, he doesn’t think there are adequate words in the English language.

“I’m...adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” Fury parrots back.

Steve struggles to keep his face impassive. Everyone keeps looking at him like they expect him to fall apart, as if the idea of new technology or social progress is going to destroy him. They somehow forget just what exactly he’s seen in his life. The tesseract, the Red Skull, and even his own shiny post-serum body are all the products of remarkable and inexplicable technology. No, it’s not what’s in the future that disturbs him. He’s more upset by all of the things he’s left behind.

Of course, he’s not going to admit any that to Fury. Instead, he tries to explain himself as best he can without sounding like he’s unhinged.

“I’m not exactly shocked by the idea of things I can’t understand,” he starts. “I accepted a long time ago that there are certain things in the world that are far beyond my ability to comprehend. The only thing I can control is how I react to what’s put in front of me. So yes, I’m adjusting, at least as much as I know how.”

Fury nods. “That sounds great Rogers, but are you just saying that because you’re actually all right or because you want me off your case?”

Definitely the second choice. It took him a couple of days to get around to visiting the library, but he’s been trying his best to catch up on the decades of history he’s missed. Some of it’s amazing – civil rights, the space program, computers – but other things leave him breathless and mildly sick. The day he read about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he slammed his book shut and spent the night running through New York streets that he no longer recognizes.

But that answer will not get him assigned to field work, so he answers dispassionately. “I’m fine. I would tell you if anything was seriously wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Steve starts.

“I’ve read your file.” Fury pulls a thick file folder off his desk, cracks it open, and starts to read. “Seven attempts to enlist under false pretenses, which is illegal, by the way. Moving behind enemy lines, against direct orders on an unsanctioned rescue mission with commandeered government property and civilian backup. No, Cap, somehow, I don’t think you’d have a problem fudging the truth to get what you need. As far as I can tell, you spend most of your time either down in the gym beating up your problems or locked in your room. So, this whole well-adjusted thing you’re trying to sell? I’m not buying it.”

Steve is mildly impressed by Fury’s deductions. In a very short amount of time, the director has drawn a surprisingly accurate conclusion about his willingness to modify the rules if they impede his ability to do what’s right. He’s impressed by Fury’s insight, but he’s not sure if he’s comfortable with him knowing that much information.

“Did you have a question, sir?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’ve got a question. Just what the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

Steve waits, unsure if it’s a rhetorical question or not. When Fury doesn’t respond, he finally answers. “Put me to work.”

“That’s the endgame. But, I need to know what to do with you in the meantime.”

“I’m ready now!”

“That’s the thing though. I’m not quite sure that you are.”

“With all due respect, how do you know that if you won’t even put me in the field?”

“Rogers, I can’t put you in the field.”

“Why not?” he demands, his voice growing angry. He’s more than proved his value in the field, both in his own time and this one. If Fury’s trying to keep him from working, he has a right to know why!

Fury reaches behind his desk and pulls a small, rectangular object out of a slot on his computer. He holds it up with two fingers, looking pointedly at Steve.

“What is this?” he asks, gesturing to the rectangle. Steve stares at the strange little device. It probably does something ridiculously complex, but he has no idea how to answer.

“No?” Fury queries. “Alright, what’s the name of one movie playing in theatres right now? Who won the Super Bowl last year? Who the fuck are the Kardashians and what the hell do they do?” After a few more moment of silence, Fury goes on. “Rogers, you wouldn’t last five minutes on an undercover op. A kid could probably make you in five minutes. You’re a good man and a hell of a soldier, but I can’t risk putting you to work until I know you won’t put anyone else in danger.”

Steve wants to argue, to insist that he’s ready to do something useful. But he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Fury’s right; he’d be more of a hindrance than a help at this point.

“So, what exactly do you want me to do?” he asked dejectedly.

“Well, now, that’s up to you. Ideally, I’d like to get you out there working. Frankly, you’re capable of things that none of our other agents can do, and you’d be a hell of an asset. But I can’t do that until you get your head in the 21st century.”

“And how exactly do you suggest I do that?”

“Well, you can start by getting out of your apartment every once in a while. Go outside. Walk in the park. Talk to someone and find out what makes this century tick. You helped saved the world, Cap! Now it’s time to figure out what exactly it is that you’ve saved.”

That sound great in theory. The practice is somewhat more difficult.

“What if I don’t know how?” he asks, his voice the most vulnerable it’s been since the interview started.

“Well, I suggest you get to figuring that out.”

Steve swallows. Doesn’t Fury know it’s not that simple?!?! If adjusting to a seventy-year time jump was so effortless, he’d have done it weeks ago. But he lost his life, his friends, and everyone he’s ever known.  It makes the adjustment somewhat more difficult.

“I’ve never been good at just...relaxing. I’ve been a soldier for so long, that I’m not really sure what to do with myself without a mission.”

“I might be able to help you with that.”

Steve sits up, suddenly invested in the conversation.

“What do you know about Tony Stark?” Fury asks.

“Howard’s son?” Steve responds, mildly confused that Fury’s bringing Stark into their discussion. He thinks back to the stack of file folders in his bedroom and tries to recall the details pertaining to Tony Stark. The first thing that comes to mind is a pleasantly attractive face with elaborate facial hair that should look stupid but somehow doesn't. He starts reciting sparse details listed in the file.

“Former CEO and controlling shareholder of Stark Industries. Captured in Afghanistan in 2008 on a routine weapons demonstration. Held captive for three months, but escaped by inventing a prototype of the Iron Man armor. After coming back to the US, he took his company out of the weapons trade, perfected the Iron Man suit, and hired a bodyguard to wear the armor. When Loki landed in Stuttgart, Stark sent Iron Man to join the Avengers. Now, he’s working with the city and the state in the reconstruction efforts.”

He stops his mental checklist and looks up at Fury, who nods.

“Spot on. Stark’s got his fingers in a lot of pies. He may be out of the weapons business, but that arc reactor is potentially the most powerful piece of tech on the planet now that the Tesseract’s gone. More to the point, he’s one of SHIELD’s most prolific contractors. That Helicarrier we flew to Stuttgart? All Stark. We don’t let him near our operating systems because the sneaky bastard’s too damn nosy, but most of our tech originates from Stark Industries.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is he’s late! When Loki and his alien army attacked, he wrecked two of our three operational Helicarriers. And I think you saw firsthand what happened to the third one on the way back from Germany.”

Steve nods, remembering spinning propeller blades and flashes of red and gold.

“We need an accelerated construction schedule, and we need it yesterday, but Stark operates according to his own timetable. He’s rich as hell, so withholding payment doesn’t faze him. And his competitors aren’t worth shit, so we can’t turn anywhere else. He’s got a monopoly on our tech, and we can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“Where do I come into to that scenario?”

“Stark needs someone to light a fire under him, and that someone is you.”

“ _Me_?” Steve asks, his voice skyrocketing in shock.

“Over the past few weeks, we’ve sent four highly-trained senior agents to try to motivate Stark, and not a one of them lasted more than three days. I’m out of options, and my absolute last bet is you.” Fury leaned forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Cap. You’re now the new official SHIELD liaison to Stark Industries.”

Steve can’t for the life of him follow Fury’s logic.  “Director, I’m not exactly sure I’m the man for the job. We just got through talking about how much I don’t know this century. Now you want me to talk to Tony Stark? I’m probably the least qualified person for the job!”

“And that’s why it has to be you.” Fury sighs, stand up, and crosses to sit on the corner of his desk. He leans forward, trying to engage Steve with mere proximity. “No one will ever be able to talk techno-babble with Stark. He’s one of the smartest men on the planet, but he’s also one of the most stubborn. He doesn’t need someone to tell him to get things done; he needs someone to convince him that it’s the right thing to do.”

“So, what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Convince him to get our Helicarrier construction back on track. You might not be the most tech-savvy person we’ve got, but you have a sincerity that most of our agents...lack. Without Stark’s tech, we can’t effectively do our jobs. Make him see that, and don’t leave until he does.”

“You want me to babysit him?”

“I want you to...encourage him.” Fury pauses and raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather go back to destroying punching bags?”

Steve thinks back to his sparse apartment and the line of broken bags in the SHIELD gym.

“No,” he answers. “I’ll do it.”

Fury nods, as if he expected this answer. “Good. Talk to Romanov. She worked for Stark a couple of years ago, so she should be able to tell you what to expect from him. She’ll also help you to set up your back story.”

And with that, Steve knows he’s dismissed. He still has no idea what exactly Fury expects him to do, but for the first time since the Chitauri, he feels like he has a purpose.

* * *

 

Steve calls Natasha the moment he leaves Fury’s office, fearful that if he waited too long, the director would change his mind and rescind his offer.

She’s also one of the few people who know that he’s Captain America.  A couple of days after the Chitauri invasion, she’d approached him in the gym and calmly stated, “If we’re going to be working together, we’ll need to coordinate our fighting styles.”  He immediately went on the defensive – he’s a new agent, he just transferred in from the army, et cetera – but Natasha didn’t buy any of it.

“I’m specially trained to look past what people want me to see,” she’d said, “and, no offense Cap, the cowl’s not that great of a disguise.”

It seemed pointless to deny it after that; actually, it was somewhat of a relief to have someone know about his double life.  They quickly settled into a pattern of sorts, where they’d meet once or twice a week to practice maneuvers they’d most likely see in battle.  Natasha got plenty of practice being propelled off of his shield, and Steve learned how to block a few of her most common kicks.  Only a few, though.  He doubts he’ll ever be able to best her entirely without relying on his enhanced reflexes.

Natasha Romanov terrifies him, but he’s okay with that.  Only fools are unafraid of the Black Widow.

They meet the next day at a coffee shop a couple of blocks from headquarters.  It’s a quaint little place full of women in yoga pants and hipsters typing on laptops.  They pay a ridiculous amount of money for two basic cups of coffee and slide into one of the more secluded tables.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Natasha asks, sipping her drink.

“Probably not, but I’m kind of going out of my mind just sitting in that apartment,” Steve answers. “Something’s better than nothing, right?”

“Usually? Yes. With Stark...maybe.”

“What exactly has everybody so worried about Stark?” he asks, somewhat confused.  After all, Howard wasn’t that bad. Eccentric, yes, but certainly not as terrifying as everyone is making his son out to be.

Natasha exhales and shakes her head slightly. “The first thing you need to know about Tony Stark is that he’s a genius.”

“Okay…” he responds, still unsure where this is going.

“No, I mean an absolute genius. Stark’s not just a scientist. He’s _the_ scientist. There are maybe three or four people in the world capable of matching Stark on an intellectual level, but none of them have been able to channel their brainpower the way Stark has. More to the point, he’s an engineer, a mechanic, an inventor, a programmer – you name it, and Tony Stark can do it. And, if for some reason, there’s something he doesn’t know that he thinks will be useful, he’ll internalize an entire field of study within a 24-hour period. He’s just that good.”

Steve believes it. He may not know Stark personally, but that Iron Man armor is like nothing he’s ever seen before. He’s still missing something, though.

“That still doesn’t explain why no one can seem to work with him.”

“Because aside from being a brilliant man, Stark’s also a pain in the ass.”

Steve frowns. “How so?”

“A consequence of being brilliant is that you always think you’re right, and Stark has been the smartest person in the room since he was about eight years old.”

“Being smart isn’t the same thing as being right,” he answers, frowning. He’s known plenty of people throughout the years with plenty of formal knowledge but not a lick of common sense.

A smirk crosses Natasha’s normally serious face. “Please, do share that wisdom with Stark.”

Somehow, Steve doubts that would go across well. He’s starting to get the impression that Stark has a bit of an attitude problem.

“If he’s so hard-headed, why work with him?” he asks, not quite managing to keep the displeasure out of his voice.

“Because he’s light years ahead of everyone else in his field, and the work he does for SHIELD more than makes up for his eccentricities.”  She straightens, her voice immediately turning more businesslike. “So, for your cover…I’m not going to lie, Steve. This is going to be difficult. Most operatives would have years of training and weeks of briefing before trying to pull a ruse like this off. But, Fury seems to think that you might be able to reach Stark in a way that none of our previous liaisons have.”

“I don’t know what exactly he expects me to do. It’s not like I have a stellar track record for making friends in this century.”

“Well, now’s the time to start,” Natasha looks at him with something like pity in her eyes, but her voice is a sharp as ever. “Okay, first rule of undercover work: do not volunteer information.”

Steve frowns.  “I thought you said I was supposed to connect with him. Doesn’t that sort of imply, well, sharing?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Not as much as you’d think. One of the biggest mistakes first time undercover agents make is their proclivity to overshare things. They spend so much time studying a profile and internalizing a backstory that they can recite it in their sleep. But the best cover story is the one you don’t need. It provides a framework for your character, but you don't necessarily have to share it all. Think about it. When you first meet someone, is your first instinct to give them every personal detail?”

“No,” he answers. He certainly hasn’t that shared much personal information with anyone since he’s woken up. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“It’s supposed to. Rule number two. Keep your story as simple and honest as possible. With time and experience, you might be able to pull off a more elaborate ruse, but without training it’s too easy to let something authentic slip through. It’s much better to tell the truth than get caught in a lie.”

“That’s not going to work for me!” he responds, voice coming out in a shocked huff. “There’s literally nothing about my life that belongs in this century.”

“Not the particulars, no. But the basic facts still work.” She looks him dead in the eyes, her voice surprisingly intense. “Your name is Steve Rogers. You were born in Brooklyn. You’re twenty-seven years old – yes, Steve, twenty-seven.  You’re not ninety-four, no matter what you say. You’re a highly-skilled member of the US army, who was historically assigned classified missions that you absolutely cannot discuss. You’ve just come back to the United States and you’re having a bit of a difficult time readjusting to civilian life.”

Strangely enough, none of that’s actually a lie, aside from the age thing. He was born in 1918, ergo he’s 94. But aside from that minor snafu, everything else Natasha’s just said works out, if you ignore the fact that it happened in the 20th century and not the 21st. It’s…somewhat comforting.

But there’s still one glaring problem that they need to address.

“And the fact that I know practically nothing about last seventy years? That one’s going to be kind of hard to gloss over.”

“Oh, we have an answer for that.” For the first time since they’ve been talking, Natasha looks genuinely amused, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you know what technophobia is?”

It’s not a term he’s familiar with, but the construction is fairly simple. “Fear of...technology?”

“Exactly.”

He’s still a bit confused. Sure, he remembers crazy Mrs. Jankowski, his childhood neighbor from down the street who thought radio waves were going to cook her brain, but he can’t exactly see how the memory of his former neighbor would help clarify the current situation.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It gives you a reason for your lack of post-1940s pop-culture knowledge.” Natasha stops for a moment, leaning forward a bit. “As far as anyone knows, Steve Rogers was raised from a very young age by an exceedingly technophobic grandmother. This mythical grandmother loathed technology so much that she homeschooled you and forbid most electronics in her house – no television, no radio, no phone. She died when you were eighteen, and a technologically inexperienced Steve immediately joined the army, which wasn’t exactly concerned with improving your cultural education. You served two tours overseas, and have just transferred back to SHIELD’s New York office.  It’s only to be expected that you’re still unfamiliar with some facets of technology and pop culture.”

He tries to work out the logic of that backstory.  It’s far-fetched to be certain, but it’s so crazy that it just might work.  It would certainly account for the way cultural details pass right over his head.

“So, just to be clear, SHIELD is sending a hypothetical agent with no technical skills to negotiate with one of the most scientifically sophisticated people on the planet?”

“Correct.”

“That is absolutely insane and makes no sense!”

Natasha’s lips quirk up. “So you’re in?”

It only takes him a moment to make up his mind.

“I’m in.”


	2. Rebuilding

“JARVIS, increase power by ten percent.”

“Sir, I must warn you that the emissions from this particular isotope are already displaying signs of instability.  Increasing the current will most likely result in –”

“That’s enough commentary from the peanut gallery.  Up the dose, J.”

If he hadn’t expressly forbidden JARVIS from sighing in his presence, Tony had no doubt that his favorite AI would have let out an audible indication of his disapproval.  J will get over it.  It’s not like they haven’t done this whole dog and pony show before.  Besides, JARVIS’ code is backed up on external servers, so he really doesn’t see with he’s making such a fuss.  As it stands, the slight delay in the power uptake is the only clue he has of JARVIS’ displeasure.

For a moment, he thinks it’s going to work.  The blue light emitting from the reactor prototype glows brightly, casting the surrounding area in an iridescent sheen and reflecting off the metallic surfaces scattered around the room.  A steady buzz fills the air as a _woosh_ of unseen particles circles back and forth through the torus faster than the speed of light.  He’s done it.  The reaction has finally reached stasis –

Until suddenly it hasn’t.

The casing surrounding the reactor is far too strong to shatter on overload, but the reinforced polymer doesn’t stop the sudden harsh glare from nearly blinding his eyes.  For a few seconds, the reactor burns white-hot, until it at last sputters out with a few last flickers.

“Damn it!”

“I did try to warn you, Sir.”

“No one likes a know-it-all, J,” Tony snaps, ripping the visor off of his head and turning to the nearest hologram, which displayed the blueprints of the now-defunct prototype.

“I wouldn’t say that, Sir.  Many people seem to enjoy _your_ company.”

“Haha, very funny,” Tony replies with absolutely no levity in his voice.  JARVIS’ humor is much funnier when it isn’t following on the heels of crippling defeat.  He turns to look for the thousandth time and the schematics, trying to work out where exactly he went wrong this time.  The math is theoretically perfect – it should _work_ – yet time after time he’s left with the corpse of yet another burned out reactor.  He’s going to have to hold a mass funeral soon to get rid of all of the tiny, mangled tech carcases.  Maybe a funeral pyre would be appropriate, since they seemed to enjoy spontaneously bursting into flames.

He knew this was going to be a challenging project. It’s somewhat difficult to look to scientific precedence when you’re literally breaking the rules of physics.  Arc reactor technology is somewhat of a scientific breakthrough in and of itself; miniaturized arc reactor technology is a feat of brilliance, particularly considered that he theorized said discovery in a cave while hooked up to a car battery – amazing what you can do with the proper motivation.  Modified miniaturized arc reactor technology is a goddamn nightmare.

It turns out, the reactor is somewhat of a picky eater.  She dines only on the purest offerings palladium or vibranium, and heaven forbid you try to substitute something different.  Apparently, plutonium is the broccoli of viable fissle materials.  The problem is palladium is one of the rarest minerals on earth to mine, and vibranium is expensive as fuck to produce.  Neither are going to be a viable element for the new reactor, at least not with the production scale he’s envisioning.  Nope, he’s just going to have to keep looking and hopes that he finds a suitable replacement before he spontaneously combusts from sheer frustration.    

Or, you know, the Decepticons invade.  Given the events of the past year, that’s now a conceivable scenario.  How in the world is this his life?  Five years ago, he never would have imagined he be legitimately contemplating the probability of a future alien invasion.  Of course, five years ago, he’d never thought that he’d resign as CEO, either.  Or that his godfather would try to murder him.  Or that he’d somehow make himself into a superhero and lie about it on national television.

It’s ironic, really, that his best and brightest creation is the one he’s least allowed to talk about.  Sure, the public knows he created Iron Man, but everyone just operates under the assumption that someone else pilots the suit, a bodyguard who prefers to remain anonymous because it’s the “right thing to do.”  Little do they know that Tony Stark, the man the media just loves to hate, pilots the armor they love so much.

In that very first press conference after Obadiah’s double-cross, he came so close to letting it all slip.  It would’ve been so easy – tell SHIELD to stick their cover story where the sun don’t shine, throw away the notecards, and say _I am Iron Man_ – but he doesn’t.  Being Tony Stark is dangerous enough, as evidenced by the whole kidnapping, ransom, illicit arms smuggling saga, but being Iron Man seems exponentially more dangerous.  He lives and works in a tower with his name on it for Christ’s sake!  Why not send hand engraved invitations to the Villain of the Month?

Aside from that, he’s got Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, and several thousand employees that he’s responsible for, who might not appreciate it if Knock Off Terrorist #5 comes chasing after their boss.  Decisions have consequences – Lord knows Gulmira pounded that into his brain – and he has no right to endanger the people under his care.  No, he’s enough of a soft target as it is without parading around in flashy red and yellow armor, no matter how attractive that armor is.  Instead, he gets to lie low and send his “bodyguard” off to fight crime with the rest of the cool kids.

As far as anyone knows, he had one brief flight, just enough of an ascent to carry him out of a desert and pass on the armour to a hypothetical someone else worthier of the responsibility.  That noble, imaginary figure fought alongside the Avengers and flew a nuke into space.   _Iron Man_ is one of New York’s finest heroes.   _Iron Man_ fought alongside the Avengers.   _Iron Man_ flew a nuke into space and fell back through a wormhole.   

Tony Stark has no legitimate reason to dream of endless black and suffocating amidst a sea of stars.

He’s handling it well, though.  It’s not exactly like there’s a psychological threshold for near-death-via-alien-induced-space-anomaly.  He’s pretty sure he’s the most well-adjusted man to survive an extra-terrestrial invasion while simultaneously moonlighting as a superhero.

Not that Iron Man’s been needed in the past few weeks.  Turns out, metal man has all the fun while Tony Stark gets stuck on cleanup duty.  Sure, he helped save the world, but no one ever mentioned what a long and drawn out ordeal the reconstruction would be.

He sighs and pinches the holo into nonexistence.  Back to square one.

“Sir,” JARVIS calls from overhead.  “Now that your latest attempt has concluded, I feel obligated to inform you that your 9:30 appointment has been waiting for quite some time in the upstairs conference room.”

“Not now, J.  I’m busy.”

“You’re continually busy, Sir.  Moreover, Miss Potts insisted that I ensure your attendance.”

“Can’t we just blow it off and apologize later?”  His voice may or may not resemble a whine at this point.  Slightly.  He’s really not up for speaking to…whomever he’s supposed to speak to, and Jimmy Choo’s are a great way to say I’m sorry.

“I’m afraid not, Sir.  I really must insist, or else I shall have to inform Miss Potts of your negligence.”

“Traitor.”  He walks around to the closet he built for times when he has to pull off a quick wardrobe change.  A blazer over a Pink Floyd t-shirt is the epitome of style, no matter what anyone else says.

“There’d better be coffee when I come back!” he insists as he heads toward the elevator.

* * *

Tony’s slightly confused when he reaches the conference room.  Sure, he’s not exactly sure what this meeting’s supposed to be about, but he’s pretty sure he’s never seen the guy sitting alone at the conference room table before.  He _definitely_ would have remembered him.

It’s also possible that sleep deprivation and caffeine overload are causing him to hallucinate, but he’s never going to say that out loud.  (Admit one time to feeling the _tiniest_ bit overworked, and Pepper goes all mamma bear.  Give her an opening like that, and she’ll start blaspheming with words like “circadian rhythm” and “decaf.”  Ain’t gonna happen.)  On the other hand, if his brain is performing at slightly less than its usual brilliant capacity, the least he can do is appreciate the breakdown, because the man in front of him is unfairly gorgeous.   

Tall, blonde, and handsome is the closest thing to a walking Disney prince that he’s ever seen.  Despite his frankly atrocious wardrobe choices – seriously, who wears Dockers on purpose – there’s no hiding that jawline or those fabulous baby blues.  The last time he’d felt this sort of instant pull was in 1981, when his rampant fascination with Harrison Ford running from boulders and punching Nazis clued him into the fact that he was probably sort of attracted to men too.

His day suddenly just got a whole lot better.    

“Hello,” he grins and extends his hand.  Unnamed gorgeous man rises to meet him.  Wow, he’s tall.

“Mr. Stark.”  Ooh, Disney prince voice, too.  The gifts just keep on giving.

“Oh, please call me Tony,” he answers, briefly shaking hands and gesturing the to the minibar along the far wall.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

Blue Eyes frowns.  “It’s 11:00 am.”

Oh, right.  Well, technically he’s been awake for the past seventeen hours; that has to count for something.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he shrugs, crossing to pour himself a brandy.  When he turns back around, the other man looks somewhat disapproving, his eyes shifting back and forth between Tony’s face and the tumbler.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, his voice just a tad bit more reserved than before.  “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No,” he replies, “I’m new.”  He looks slightly confused, as if he expects Tony to know more of what’s going on.  “My name is Steve,” he says, “Steve Rogers.”

“All right, Steve Rogers, what exactly can I do for you today?”

“I’m here on behalf of SHIELD.  Director Fury asked me to –”

The moment he hears the world “SHIELD,” Tony’s mind immediately shuts down, and he’s automatically committed to getting out of this meeting as soon as is physically possible.  This.  Again.  Hasn't Fury learned his lesson by now?  

“Look,” he barks, in no mood to listen to the latest spiel, “I don’t know what Fury told you, but the answer’s still the same.  I’ll get to the Helicarrier designs when I get to them, and I’m not going to change my mind, no matter how many agents he sends me.”

Steve’s eyes narrow, and a slight wrinkle appears between his eyebrows.  “Mr. Stark, you agreed to design and build Helicarriers for SHIELD.  Your contract with – ”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but a demigod and his alien army _invaded the Earth!_ ” he says, voice rising.  “I’m pretty sure that’s the literal definition of an Act of God.  So by all means, go ahead.  I’d love to see Fury try to argue breach of contract.  Plus, it’s not exactly the best idea to piss off the guy you’re asking to build your engines.”

“I’m well aware of what Loki did,” Steve replies, back ramrod straight, “but that just makes the Helicarrier construction all that much more important.  What exactly would have happened if SHIELD hadn’t been there to assist?”

“Ummm, pretty much the exact same thing?”  he snaps back.  “As far as I can tell, SHIELD flew Captain America and Co to Germany to intercept Loki, but Iron Man was the one who brought him in.  As far as New York goes, the Avengers took most of the hits, while Fury floated above the city like the world’s most useless helicopter parent.”

Steve looks somewhat taken aback at this logic, and Tony feels a brief spark of satisfaction.

“Be that as it may,” Steve replies, “SHIELD is still our best deterrent if something like this occurs again.  Are you really going to leave them unequipped when the next catastrophe occurs?”

“Fury’s got plenty of equipment to work with.”

“But none with the transport capabilities of a Helicarrier.  How is SHIELD supposed to monitor a crisis of they can’t provide adequate technical support?  Without the best possible equipment, they can’t keep a situation from escalating.”

“Is that what he’s trying to tell you?  That SHIELD is a peace keeping force?!”  Tony asks somewhat incredulously.  When Steve remains silent, Tony sighs.  “Look, I’ve been in this game for a long time.  Preventative measures only work so long as the guy with his finger on the button is committed to not pressing it, and I don’t trust Fury to be that guy.   He’s not asking for a deterrent; he’s looking for an arsenal.”

Steve’s response is slower this time.   “But you’ve worked with him before.  What’s different now?”

_I’m actually in a position to make a difference this time._

“Priorities have changed,” Tony responds tersely.

“What exactly is more important than protecting the world?” Steve asks in a blend of anger and confusion.

“Rebuilding it.”

Steve goes suspiciously quiet and his face stills.  Tony, on the other hand, stands up.

“If you don’t mind, Agent Rogers, you can show yourself out.”  He turns and heads straight for the elevator, desperate to get back to the lab as soon as possible.  He doesn’t want to hear another word of Fury’s bullshit, no matter how pretty the mouthpiece is.


	3. An Unstoppable Force Meets an Immovable Object

His body hits the floor with a loud _thunk_ , and the impact reverberates through his shoulder and right side.  He uses the momentum to complete the rotation, flips over, rolls to his feet, and turns to face Natasha.  Despite having just tossed him to the ground for the umpteenth time, she looks remarkably poised.

Steve immediately raises his fist in front of him in a basic boxer’s guard, but Natasha doesn’t move to engage.  Instead, she takes a step back and tilts her head.

“Something’s off.”

Steve shakes his head and begins to shuffle his feet.  “I’m fine.  Let’s do this.”

“No, you’re not,” Natasha answers calmly.  “Not even I can manage to toss you this frequently.  What gives?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve stubbornly exists, ready to reengage.  “Let’s go!”

“I don’t think so.”  Natasha pauses and looks him straight in the face with an unnerving intensity.  “How’d your meeting with Stark go?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies.

“But I do.  And I take it from your reaction and the five takedowns I’ve made in the last thirty minutes that that talk did not go well.”

Steve knows Nat’s not going to drop this conversation anytime soon, and he drops his boxer’s stance in defeat.  “He’s just so…so…”  What words does one use to describe Tony Stark?

“So?” Natasha queries.

“…insufferable!” he bursts out, finally letting go of everything that’s been bothering him for the past two days.  “We have a five minute meeting, which he’s an hour and half late to, by the way, and he spends the entire time talking about how SHIELD can’t be trusted and he doesn’t want to give Fury extra ammunition!  Not to mention the fact that he completely brushed off everything I had to say and walked out of the room without giving me a chance to respond.”

It’s possible that his frustration has more to do with his own issues than with Stark himself.  He finally gets assigned something to do – admittedly not the most exciting thing, but a _job_ nonetheless – and he can’t even follow through.   Now he’s back to square one, sparring with Natasha and no general prospects in life.  So yeah, he’s frustrated.

Natasha doesn’t react aside from lifting one perfect eyebrow.  “Yes, I can see you’re unaffected.”  She moves toward the edge of the ring and ducks under the ropes.  Steve has no choice but to follow her, as they’re obviously done for the day.  Nat grabs two bottles of water from a nearby table and moves to sit on one of the benches.

“That’s the thing about Stark,” she says, sitting down and passing him a bottle.  “He’ll talk right over you if you give him half a chance, and he’s lightning fast with his comebacks, especially when he’s defensive.  It’s only later that you realize what you _should_ have said.”

That actually sounds remarkably close to what happened.  He keeps replaying their exchange over and over in his head, only in his fantasies, he manages to slip a word in edgewise.  Fake-Steve comes off a lot more sophisticated than they guy who sat stuttering in the Stark Tower offices while Tony Stark dismissed him in a couple dozen sentences.

“It surprises me,” Nat continues, “that he felt the need to get so hostile.  What did you say to him?”

Steve chugs his water and tries to think back over those brief couple of minutes.  “I told him exactly what Fury said.  Stark signed a contract, and it’s his responsibility to live up to his end of the agreement.”

“You gave Tony Stark a lecture on _responsibility_?”  Natasha’s voice rises an octave.

“Well, yes.”  Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do?  “I tried to tell him how important the Helicarriers were to SHIELD’s defensive operations, but by that point he’d sort of shut me out.”

“So you basically told Stark he was obligated to do something and then lectured him on the importance of the weapons industry?” 

Well it just sounds bad when you say it like that.  “Yes,” he responds, though his answer sounds more like a question than a statement.

Natasha sighs.  “Steve, Fury put you on this job because he thought you would be able to _persuade_ Stark into doing what’s right, not by beating him over the head with his responsibilities.  You pretty much just regurgitated the same lecture that’s Stark’s gotten over and over again for the past twenty years.  How did you think he’d react?”

“But it’s his job to – ”

“I know that,” Nat snaps back.  “Even Stark knows that, deep down.  What you have to do is convince him that he _wants_ to do the job.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“Use that super soldier brain of yours to figure it out,” Nat replies with a smirk.  “I’m curious, though.  What exactly did Stark say about not wanting to build the Helicarriers?”

Steve hesitates before answering.  Natasha is easily the person he’s closest to in this century, but he doesn’t know just how deep her loyalty to SHIELD lies.  Somehow, he doesn’t think she’d much appreciate Stark’s views on SHIELD’s motives.

“He said that rebuilding the world was more important than protecting it.”

“That’s interesting,” she replies slowly, her voice cautious.

“What?”  He has a feeling he’s missing something.

“When you talk about Tony Stark, ‘building’ is almost never a metaphorical term.  The question is, what exactly is Stark building and why is it so important to him?”

Steve pauses, thoughts whirling around inside of his head.  After a moment, he turns to look to Natasha.

“Can you get me back in to see Stark?”

“No,” Nat replies, “he and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.  But I think I know someone who can.”

* * *

Steve still isn’t quite sure what to make of Phil Coulson.

When he’d first woken up, he’d assumed Coulson was like the multitude of other fans he’d had to deal with back in his own time.  The innocuous looking agent had been rigorously polite and done his best to make Steve’s transition into the twenty-first century as smooth as possible.  Of course, that stoic professionalism was frequently undercut by what Steve assumed was a case of hero-worship.  The trading cards were sort of a giveaway.  More than anything, he could never quite understand why all of the other SHIELD agents seemed so intimidated of him.

After New York, though, his perception changed.  When everything finally calmed down, Fury finally got around to telling them, guess what, Phil hadn’t exactly died during Loki’s attack, just been seriously injured.  Steve was somewhat bitter over the director’s blatant manipulation, particularly at those blood-soaked cards, but it was hard to feel to angry that someone wasn't murdered.

Clint and Natasha, who had a longer history with the agent, had spent most of the ICU visiting hours at the hospital. He initially hadn’t wanted to impose upon their private time, until Natasha gave him one of her death glares and told him to show up.  He shows, with a gift.  Before making the trek to the hospital, he’d politely approached the curators at the Smithsonian and told them yes, they were welcome to display his personal effects, so long as they gave him one of their first-edition Captain America comics.  He inscribed it “To Phil” with a lengthy personal note and given it to Coulson in the hospital.  The agent’s eyes had widened momentarily, before he collected himself and muttered, “Thank you, Captain Rogers.”

Since then, they've managed a somewhat friendlier relationship.  Phil was still on half-duty, but their few interactions had been more like two colleagues with mutual respect rather than one persona idolizing the other.  Fighting alien gods is a pretty leveling experience, he supposes.

More to the point, Coulson seems to have some sort of pull with Stark, or at least with Stark’s assistant turned CEO.  He’d somehow been able to convince Ms. Potts to let him back into the tower to see Stark.  She couldn’t get him into Stark’s workspace, but she could at least make sure that Tony saw him and (theoretically) chose to speak to him again.   

Which is why he’s currently on an elevator descending into the depths of Stark Tower.

As the elevator travels downward, he thinks of Ms. Potts’ instructions – get off the elevator, sharp right, down a flight of stairs, and he should see the glass walls that surround the lab.  After that, he’s own his own, but surely he and Mr. Stark can be more reasonable this time around?

The doors open and he proceeds to follow the instructions he’s been given, holding his breath as he travels down the final stairs.  Despite all the warnings he’s received about Stark’s technical sophistication, he’s nowhere near prepared for the sight that greets him.

For starters, Stark’s lab is enormous.  He assumes that the basement runs the length and breadth of the entire building; he can barely see the farthest corners of room, which are still shrouded in dark.  Various screens and pieces of machinery crowd the room, and Steve gets the feeling that even someone born and raised in this century wouldn’t be able to tell what half of those machines are for.  The most breathtaking thing, though, is the line of Iron Man armors lined up along the south wall.  Each one stands in its own display case, lighted from behind like exhibits in a museum.

Given the sheer volume of things in the room, it takes him a moment to locate Stark, but finally he catches sight of the inventor fiddling with some sort of hologram.  His hands flash quickly, causing the floating blue images to expand and contract with the pinch of his fingers.  It takes a moment for Steve to break away from the sight, but eventually he moves toward what he assumes are sliding doors and knocks on the glass.

Stark does nothing.

He knocks a bit harder, but still nothing.

After a good thirty seconds of being ignored, he balls up his fist and starts pounding on the glass, not knowing what else it’s going to take to get Stark’s attention.  Finally, Stark’s head turns in quick, jerky motion.  He seems confused at first, as if he can’t imagine what could possibly be disrupting his workflow, until he finally takes stock of Steve’s face.  His eyes widen, then narrow.

The glass doors part with a slight _hiss_ and Steve passes through them.  Stark crosses to meet him, though he doesn’t look too happy.

“You!” he exclaims, in an almost accusatory voice.  “What are you doing here?”

Steve gathers himself, trying desperately to ensure this meeting goes better than their last.  “Mr. Stark, I think we got off on the wrong foot – ”

“Obviously,” Stark cuts in, “but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my lab.”

“I’d like to speak to you again about the SHIELD Helicarrier contract.”

“Look, haven’t they told you how this thing goes down?  You had your shot, so now it’s time for the next generic man in black to show up and try to bring me over.  Unless Fury’s run out of minions?”  Stark’s hands gesture wildly as he speaks, and his voice drips with sarcasm.

“I haven’t quite given up on this yet.”

“I admire your optimism.  It’s nice.  Stupid, but nice.”

“And what’s so optimistic about thinking two people can sit down and have a calm, rational conversation?”

“Umm, have you met me?  Calm and rational are not typically adjectives people use in my presence.  Unless they’re telling me to be calm and rational.”

Steve chooses to ignore that.  “I think we can both agree that our last meeting did not go according to plan.  What I want to know is, what can I do to convince you to revisit your construction plans?” 

“Leave and never come back?” 

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Stark replies.  He gestures to the wide expanse of his lab.  “Look, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit busy here.  I’ve got about six different projects going at once, and SHIELD is way down on the list of nonessentials.”

“Mr. Stark, those Helicarriers are essential to a lot of people.”

“They don’t exist yet.  SHIELD’s functioning perfectly fine without them, and can keep on functioning without them.  I’ve got more important things on my plate right now.”

“Like what?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like what?” Steve repeats.  “You said you’re working on something important.  I'm just wondering what’s so critical that you’re postponing government contracts.”

Tony drags his hands out of the air and crosses them over his chest.  His weight shifts backwards onto his heels, and he starts regarding Steve with a long, drawn out silence.  Steve has absolutely no idea what he’s done (par for the course regarding his interactions with Stark), but judging from the other man’s reaction, he’s pretty sure he’s misstepped in some crucial way.

“So that's how Fury’s playing it,” Tony says softly.  It’s almost as if he’s talking to himself.

“I’m sorry?”

Tony’s eyes harden.  “Just because I’m not working on those Helicarriers doesn’t mean that SHIELD gets automatic access to my new tech.”

Steve jumps.  “No, that’s not what I meant at all…”

“I think you need to leave now, Rogers.”

“I’m not leaving until we at least talk about this.”

“Leave this lab right now, or I’m calling security.”  Stark’s voice is deadly serious, Steve’s heard enough ultimatums in his day to know when someone means business.  Nonetheless, he’s not giving up so easily.  He turns, walks out of the lab doors, and then spins back to face Stark.

“Not.  Leaving.”

The two men stare at each other across the now-considerable distance that separates them.  Steve can tell that Stark is furious, but that doesn’t stop him from holding his ground, and he deliberately maintains eye contact.  He’s not about to break first.

 Turns out, that isn’t even an option.  Tony, his eyes never once leaving Steve’s, yells “blackout” into the empty room, and the doors to the lab lock with a swift _hiss_.  The glass, previously transparent, darkens, and Steve can no longer see the man inside.  So that’s how Stark wants to play it.  Well, two can play that game.  Steve unlocks his knees and braces himself for a long night.  The man has to come out sometime, and Steve will be right there waiting for him when he does.

This is one battle he’s not prepared to lose.   


	4. Cracks

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Tuesday, February 07, 9:43 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper  
Subject: Complete and Utter Betrayal

Pep,

I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason that you let some random SHIELD agent down into my lab.   Thinking…thinking…Nope, my mind’s a blank.  In future, please forbid the G-men from invading my personal space.

Your incredibly inconvenienced boss,  
Tony

* * *

From: Potts, Pepper  
Sent: Tuesday, February 07, 10:37 AM  
To: Stark, Tony  
Subject: RE: Complete and Utter Betrayal

Tony,

I let Agent Rogers down to see you because a) You cannot keep brushing off SHIELD liaisons and b) I’m tired of acting as your go between.  If we need to renegotiate our contracts, then we can contact the legal department and get that under way.  I’d like to avoid that scenario, given your repeated insistence that you don’t like paperwork, and there would be so much paperwork, Tony.

A much easier alternative would be for you to simply work out the whole thing with one of Fury’s reps.  As of yet, I don’t think you’ve answered any of their questions, and Agent Rogers seems very dedicated to reaching a compromise.  Phil speaks very highly of him.  How hard would it be to simply sit down for a meeting and save us both the headache?

Sincerely,

Pepper Potts  
CEO, Stark Industries (aka, the woman who’s technically your boss)

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 1:15 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: RE: RE: Complete and Utter Betrayal

He was still here when I left the lab.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 10:11 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Creepy Stalker

The SHIELD minion was waiting for me outside my lab this morning.  Make it stop!

P.S.  According to JARVIS, he left shortly after I did but came back around 8:00 this morning.  Isn’t this what we have security for?

* * *

From: Potts, Pepper  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 10:35 AM  
To: Stark, Tony   
Subject: His name is Agent Rogers

Tony, you are an adult.  Talk to the man and this will all go away.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 12:35 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: his name is irrelevant

He brought a bagged lunch and a sack full of library books.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 3:15 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: wtf!

He’s doing wall sits now!

* * *

From: Potts, Pepper  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 4:22 PM  
To:  Stark, Tony  
Subject: Unnecessary Things

Tony, I do not need a play-by-play of your pettiness.  I get enough of that in person.  Please email me when you’ve made actual progress.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Wednesday, February 08, 11:38 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Still alive

Not that you care, but I made it to the elevator past the SHIELD agent staging a sit-in.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Thursday, February 09, 9:06 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: AGAIN

He’s back!  Seriously, does this guy have nothing better to do?

And who voluntarily reads _The Cambridge History of the Cold War, Volume 3_?  Volume 3, Pepper.  Seriously.  Does that mean he’s already read volumes one and two?!?!?

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Saturday, February 11, 12:15 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Agent No-Life

He’s here on the weekend now.  This is getting ridiculous.  Who needs this much overtime?

* * *

From: Potts, Pepper  
Sent: Saturday, February 11, 2:55 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Irony

Did you ever stop to think that you’re working on the weekend too?

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Sunday, February 12, 10:27 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Excuse me

I am single-handedly designing technology that will revolutionize the world as we know it.  Agent Muscles is currently making his way through the world’s driest reading list.

Today’s selection:   _The Nixon Administration and The Middle East Peace Process, 1969-1973_.  I’m starting to understand why this guy has no social life.

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Tuesday, February 14, 4:48 PM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: Enough

Seriously, talk to SHIELD and get them to call off their watchdog.    

* * *

From: Stark, Tony  
Sent: Friday, February 17, 9:03 AM  
To: Potts, Pepper   
Subject: PEPPER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

See subject line.

* * *

Most people don’t know it, but blackout glass doesn’t technically blackout the lab.  It could, of course – he designed it after all – but more often than not it’s more beneficial to watch the reactions of the people he’s locking out.  Default blackout mode, then, works more like one-way glass than an actual partition, and he can see everything Agent Stalker is doing.

It’s slowly driving him insane.

The first time he’d first shut Rogers out of the lab, he didn’t expect the guy to stick around.  His hallway, after all, isn’t the most thrilling place in the world.   But Rogers stayed.  After the first thirty minutes or so he’d relocated to the steps leading up to the elevator, but for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night he’d sat there like the world’s most irritating statue.  More times than he cared to admit, Tony found himself glancing toward the exit to see if the man had vacated his hallway.  He never did.

Tony had finally called it quits around midnight after his latest calculations fell through.  (He blames Stalker for that.  How was he supposed to think with that much muscle practically _looming_ outside his door?)  Needless to say, the lack of results and the feeling of being watched all day had him itching for a fight.  Yet once again, the minion didn't live up to his end of the bargain.  Tony had approached the doors with blackout mode still engaged, curious to see what exactly the agent would do after lying in wait for over fourteen hours; as the doors slid open, Rogers’ head perked up, and Tony braced himself for the other man to finally let it all out.  He was secretly looking forward to the all-out scream fest.

But it never happened.  Rogers had simply asked, “Is now a more convenient time to talk?” in a ridiculously calm voice, and Tony was left wondering just who the hell this guy actually was and if he had a couple of screws loose.  He’d managed a _very_ sophisticated “No!” before storming past Rogers up the stairs, riding the elevator to the penthouse, and sending Pepper an extremely frustrated email.

And then the idiot came back.  The next morning when Tony traipsed down the lab, his morning cup of coffee in hand, Agent Stalker was there, waiting by the doors and determined to give Tony a heart attack.  Tony had let out what may or may not have been a squeak as scalding hot coffee splashed all over his hand and his shirt.

“What the hell!” he’d demanded, desperately trying to shake the liquid off his hand and understand what the creeper was still doing outside his lab.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry,” yelled the guy who was totally responsible for all of this.  Turning, he’d pulled two napkins out of – was that a _lunchbox_?

“What are you doing here?” Tony had demanded while desperately trying to mop up spilled coffee.

Rogers had the gall to look somewhat chagrined before he’d started speaking.  “I was hoping this was a better time to talk.”

It’s rare that Tony ever finds himself at a loss for words, but Agent Stalker has managed to get him there.  “What…How…Why would you…”  He paused, drew in a deep breath, and tried not to focus on the strong coffee smells now wafting from his shirt.  “No, Rogers, this is not a good time to talk.”

Rogers frowned and his eyes slowly shifted from coffee-induced guilt to stubbornness.  “I can do this all day.”

“Be my guest,” Tony bit off sharply and stormed his way into the lab.  It was only he after he’d gone back inside that he finally stopped to realize the significance of Rogers’ lunchbox.  Glaring out through the darkened glass, he’d turn to see just exactly what else Rogers brought with him.  He couldn’t make out much, as the other man’s massive bulk was still blocking his view, but after a moment the agent turned and sat down against the wall, and Tony caught a glimpse of Rogers’ provisions: a frighteningly large lunchbox, a lumpy messenger bag, and some sort of notepad lay propped along the wall.  The implications of those objects were irritating, particularly when Rogers pulled a book out of his bag and slouched against the wall like he belonged there.

Well, that was just…endlessly infuriating!  So be it.  If Rogers thought he was going to give in that easy, he had another thing coming.  No one did stubborn better than Tony Stark!  He’d get tired of waiting eventually.

Except the same thing happened the next day.  And the next.  And the next.  Every day when Tony left the lab, he’s met with Rogers’ “Is this a good time?” and every morning when he came down, Rogers was there with his “How about now?”  He didn’t think such innocuous phrases could sound so infuriating, but those particular combinations of words are now a sure-fire way to set him off.

Somehow, someway, Rogers can spend his entire day within Tony’s narrow entry hallway, alternating between an _incredibly boring_ reading list, writing (drawing?) something in his notebook, and doing various bodyweight exercises.  Bodyweight.  Exercises.  (The first time he’d caught his least favorite SHIELD agent doing pushups, he’d nearly dropped his blowtorch.  He felt slightly guilty for stopping and watching Rogers’ five-minute set, but, well, he’s only human.  Besides, people who don't want to be spied on during their workout routines shouldn’t conduct said workout routine in the middle of a stakeout.)

It’s been nearly two weeks, _two weeks_ , since his first lab-confrontation with Rogers, and neither have them have accomplished anything.  He’s still trying to hammer out the fine points of portable cold fusion devices and Rogers is – good Lord, the man is doing burpees.  Apparently, Steve Rogers hasn’t gotten the memo that those things are Satan’s hiccups, because he’s jumping around the hallway like that level of physical activity is remotely enjoyable.  The man is seriously disturbed.

Maybe it’s a sign.  The guy’s got to be bored out of his mind sitting day in and day out in Tony’s hallway.  No matter what time he gets down here or what time he goes to bed, Rogers is always here, waiting with his infuriating questions.  This type of pigheadedness is simply not sustainable.  At least, Tony hopes it’s not.  He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.  

* * *

If Tony Stark thinks he’s going to crack, he’s got another thing coming.

True, sitting outside of Stark’s lab and wondering what’s going on inside isn’t the most thrilling activity, but it’s not as if he has any other pressing engagements.  He’s pretty much doing the same thing that he’s done for the past month – trying to catch up on the world – only he’s doing it in the depths of Stark Tower rather than in his tiny apartment on the upper floors of SHIELD’s New York headquarters.  The view’s not great and he misses his morning runs, but the boredom is actually fairly manageable.

In a funny way, it’s as if he’s been training his entire life for this moment.  When he was eight years old, he had to spend almost two months in bed with a bad case of whooping cough, and the rest of his pre-serum life was speckled with frequent bouts of bedrest.  Not to mention, he was in the army; the United States Army is known for many things, but efficiency is not one of them.  Their official motto might read “This We Defend,” but it might as well be “Hurry Up and Wait” considering the ratio of action to downtime.  Boredom is and always has been part of his daily existence, so staring at the blacked-out walls of Stark’s laboratory isn’t the worst fate he can imagine.  Steve’s framing this as a protracted stakeout mission with the potential of a large payout at the end.

He’s pretty sure he’s making headway.  Each day when he meets Stark at the bottom of the stairs, the businessman’s eyes get a bit tighter, and his _not todays_ are growing increasingly clipped.  Sooner or later, Stark’s going to crack, and when he does, Steve will be waiting.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from feeling restless every once in awhile.  He tries to keep active by doing some of the calisthenics routines that Nat had shown him, but he honestly needs more to really push his muscles.  Sighing, he pulls himself out of a plank and turns back to his book.  He can only put off reading about Vietnam for so long.

He’s just about to open his book to the marked page when a soft _boom_ comes from the direction of the lab.  He can’t hear all that much – he assumes the doors are soundproofed – but he feels the reverberations ripple everywhere his skin touches the floor.  He’s on his feet in a second, immediately looking for something he can use to break the windows.  It’s at times like these when he desperately misses his shield, but there’s no way he can get around with carrying something like that in public.  Instead, he’s forced to grab one of the fake ficus trees at the end of the hallway; its large metal pot should function fairly well as a battering ram.

He wraps his right hand around the trunk of the ficus and braces his left on the side of the pot.  Lifting the entire unit over his head, he heaves the metal base at one of the glass panels, hoping he breaks through in time to stop whatever’s going on.  The glass doesn’t shatter on the first hit, but he can glimpse tiny spider fractures around the impact zone.  It figures that Stark would reinforce the walls of his workspace, but that security feature isn’t particularly helpful under these circumstances.  He raises the pot again, putting all of his energy into the swing, and this time the glass explodes with a crystalline screech.  He immediately jumps through the hole in the glass as his eyes start scanning the room for potential threats.  The smell of smoke reaches his nose and he can see small plumes rising from a corner in the room   He runs toward the smog.

“Mr. Stark!” he yells, desperate to find the man he knows is in here somewhere. He still can’t see anything as he approaches the smoke.  When he doesn’t hear a response, he immediately begins surveilling the room.  He doesn’t think there’s another entrance, but maybe someone could have made it in through the air vents...

“What the hell?”  Stark’s shocked voice emanates from somewhere on his left and Steve breaths a sigh of relief.  The inventor’s a bit dirty and his hands are fanning smoke away from his eyes, but he looks relatively unharmed.  

“What did you do?” the inventor demands, his voice inflected with shock.  

Steve is still trying to ascertain the situation, but it appears as if Stark isn’t in any immediate danger.  “I heard a noise,” he insists, “and I thought something was wrong.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lab.  Accidents happen.  That’s no reason to break a wall!”

“I needed to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” Stark insists, although his voice is less hostile than before.  “Although I don’t think my windows are.  How did you even break that glass?”

Steve figures his best bet is to deflect, since he can’t exactly give Stark an honest answer.  “What was that noise?”  

“An experiment went south.  Occasionally, that gets accompanied by a big bang.”

“You could have been hurt!”

“Also a risk, but that’s what the blast wall’s for.”  Stark gestures toward a large metal wall with a tiny inset window.  The smoke seems to be coming from somewhere behind it.  “The wall keeps the explosions from getting out of hand...most of them anyway.”  

“So everything’s okay?” Steve asks.  

“Well it was, until you vandalized my front door.”  Surprisingly, Stark’s voice doesn’t sound accusatory.  If anything, Steve would call it amused.  

“All right, then,” Steve replies.  It’s all a bit awkward now that he knows there’s nothing life-threatening, not to mention this is the most he’s talked to Stark since their deadlock began.  “I’ll just go…”  He begins to make his way back to the hole in the glass wall when something moves at the corners of his peripheral vision.  

A combination of adrenaline and instinct forces him into action.  He positions himself between Stark and the oncoming threat as his arms come up to defend his face.   _Something_ is making its way towards them.  He’s not quite sure what it is – it looks like something straight out of the science fiction novels he read as a kid – but it has to be some kind of robot.  A metal pincer is mounted atop a Z-shaped frame, which looks like it can expand and contract to change the robot’s height.  It proceeds toward them on wheels, making an odd series of beeps and whistles.  

“Stay back!” Steve warns.  

“No, stop!” Stark shouts from behind him, his hand reaching out to grasp Steve’s shoulder.  “That’s just Dum-E, he’s not...Dum-E, no, back to your charging station!  Back.  Just no, you’re already too late on fire safety.”  

The robot stops rolling and its claw rotates, like a human would rotate its head.  

“Back, Dum-E,” Stark insists, and the robot turns around.  If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say it looked...droopy.  He keeps his eye on the robot as it slowly proceeds back across the room.  

“What was that thing?”

“ _He_ ,” Stark stresses, “is Dum-E.  He’s a helper-bot.  Well, he’s meant to be a helper-bot, but most of the time he’s just sort of a substandard lab assistant.  He makes mediocre kale smoothies and rarely follows instructions, but he’s mine, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t punch him into oblivion.”

Steve has no idea how to process that, so he goes with a fairly simplistic response.  “You named your robot Dum-E?”

“I was seventeen.  I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time.”

“It still doesn’t seem very polite,” he replies with a slight smile.  

“I’m not exactly known for being polite,” Stark smiles back.  

Now that they’re no longer in immediate danger, the awkwardness of the situation hits Steve. He’s standing in the middle of Stark’s lab covered in glass shards and faux plant mulch, all to defend Tony from an experiment that was presumably well in hand.  This was not exactly the scenario he envisioned would break their stalemate.  

“So,” he begins awkwardly, “are we at least safe from a second explosion?”  

“Yeah, there’s no reason it should explode twice,” Stark answers.  “Probably.”

That’s less than reassuring.  “Why did it need to explode once?” he starts to ask, but immediately checks himself.  “Sorry, I promise I’m not snooping.  I’ll just...go.”  He begins to leave, but Stark’s voice stops him.  

“It’s a miniaturized cold fusion device.”  

“I’m sorry?” Steve asks, once more turning to face Stark.  The inventor looks somewhat wary, but he keeps talking, and Steve allows himself to hope that they might finally be getting somewhere.

“A miniaturized cold fusion device.  If it works – _when_ it works – it will be a sustainable source of clean energy.”  

Even though he’s still learning the ins and outs of modern technology, what Stark’s describing sounds amazing, even by 21st century standards.  “That sounds amazing,” he tells the inventor, both sincerely impressed by Stark’s claim and desperate to keep the conversation rolling.  Anything beats the tense silence they’ve maintained for the past two weeks.  “Has that ever been done before?”

“Yes and no.  It’s primarily modeled off the arc reactor that powers the Iron Man armor,” Stark answers, his head nodding toward the line of suits in the corner.  “But those things run off of vibranium, and it’s just too rare of a metal for me to go around using it commercially.”  

Steve starts at the name, and his mind immediately flashes back to the first time he held his shield.   _Vibranium. That's the rarest metal on earth. What you're holding there? That's all we've got._  Stark continues talking, unaware of the memories his words have just inspired.  

“The problem is, other elements just don’t react the way that vibranium does on a chemical level.  The arc-reactor basically functions as a multi-isotope radio-decay cell.  Ionized molecules, vibranium in this case, emit harvestable amounts of energy as they decay, and the gamma rays produced from the electron capture process catalyze the beta decay from the vibranium core.  The difference between the electron flow in the outer and inner rings enables an electric current, which you can then harvest for power.  Simple enough, right?”  Steve assumes that’s a rhetorical question.  “Unfortunately, it’s damn near impossible to work backwards when you already have a fully functioning model.  Vibranium is expensive as all hell to produce, so using it just won’t work in a commercial environment, but other molecular structures don’t have a comparable decay rate to produce the necessary electron flow, which is sort of essential to the whole process!”  

Stark ends his incomprehensible speech with a low growl and runs his hands through his already tousled hair.  At this moment, Steve is profoundly grateful that Natasha warned him how intelligent Stark was.  He doesn’t know how he’d cope if all people from the future spoke like that; he feels stupid enough as it is right now.  

Stark finally notices the awkward silence and turns to face Steve.  “I basically just have to build a better molecule,” he finishes lamely.  

Oh, that’s all.  Just build a better molecule.  As if that’s something remotely doable.  

“It sounds...complicated.”

Stark snorts.  “That’s one way to put it.  The problem is, I’ve tried dozens of permutations and none of them produce the necessary rate of decay, at least not enough to produce Cherenkov radiation.  And I’m running out of time.”

“Time for what?”  Steve asks the question on a reflex, and then immediately regrets it.  In this past, this is where their conversations have always broken down.  Each time he probes into what Stark’s currently working on, what project is supplanting his obligations to SHIELD, the inventor immediately gets defensive and finds some excuse to dismiss him.  And he can see Stark preparing to do it again.  His eyes harden and search Steve’s face, looking for...well, he doesn’t know what it is Stark’s looking for.

Whatever it is he does or doesn’t find, Stark keeps speaking.  “Do you know Mount Sinai West?”

“The hospital in Manhattan?” Steve asks, not quite understanding the connection.  Is Stark trying to develop some sort of medical device?

“That’s the one.  When the Chitauri attacked New York, Mount Sinai was one of the hundreds of businesses that lost power.  Like most hospitals, they have a backup generator, but as luck would have it one of our helpful alien robots crashed into the auxiliary power supply.  The hospital lost 85 percent of its power at a time when they had patients rushing in by the dozens.  Doctors...had to make choices.”  

Steve immediately understands everything Stark’s not saying.  He’s been on the front lines and seen the life-or-death decisions medical personal have to make in the heat of battle.  Sometimes a person who would have lived under normal circumstances doesn’t make it, simply because the doctors don’t have the time or the resources to spend when they could be helping someone with a greater chance of survival.  But that’s battlefield logic.  It shouldn't happen here.  Not now, and not in New York.   

“How does this thing you're trying to build help?  

Stark smiles, but cautiously.  “If this works the way I think it will, the arc reactor could completely replace the hospital’s source of electricity.  If the power lines ever get cut off, they won’t have to rely on an external source of energy.  The hospital would be able to generate all of their electricity on site, in-house through an environmentally sustainable source.  And if it works for Mount Sinai, arc reactor technology could power other high-energy establishments.”

It takes a moment to process what Stark’s just said, but the implications of his findings are almost too overwhelming to believe.  He can’t even think of what that would mean – for the environment, the economy, employment – if Stark’s proposal actually works.  Judging from the near-manic look in the inventor’s eyes, it’s only a matter of time before it shifts from a possibility to a certainty.  

“I’m not going to lie,” Stark continues.  “The technology’s expensive and it’s experimental, which is why most companies won’t take the risk.  It’s too much money to lay out for something that’s not a guaranteed certainty, even if they would save millions down the road.  But Mount Sinai’s unique in that it _has_ to rebuild from the ground up, and the federal government’s helping to subsidize the rebuilding process.  If I can get this working by the time Sinai’s ready to start construction, this could revolutionize the field of clean energy as we know it!”  

Steve might not understand the science, but he can definitely grasp the sincerity in Stark’s words.  He’s serious.  This arc reactor thing is something that could actually work and, potentially, help a lot of people.  

“So this is it?” Steve asks.  “When you mentioned that you wanted to rebuild, this is what you were talking about.”  

“Yes, this is it.”

Steve nods once and crosses his hands over his chest.  “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, you’re right.  This definitely takes priority over the Helicarriers.”  

“Oh,” Stark’s eyes widen at that, as if he never could have predicted this turn in the conversation.  “Great.  So...we’re done?”

“We’re done,” Steve responds and holds out his hand.  “Good luck, Mr. Stark.”

“You too,” the engineer replies, still slightly stunned that Steve’s actually agreeing with him after weeks of staging a sit in protest.  He reaches out and gives Steve a firm, brisk handshake.  “Awesome.  I can go back to blowing things up and you can go back to being your super secret spy self.”  

Steve laughs, although there’s no humor in it.  “Yeah, right.”

“Am I missing something?”

Steve stutters, not sure if he can explain this.  He remembers Natasha’s advice – keep it as close to the truth as possible – and tries to choke out an answer.  

“I just got back from active service overseas,” he starts slowly.  “Fury doesn’t think I’m ready for field service, so this assignment was sort of a stopgap to give me something to do.  I really don’t have all that much to go back to.”

Stark’s face devolves into something like pity, and Steve automatically regrets opening his mouth.  It’s not his job to unload to Tony Stark.  He has a very qualified SHIELD therapist that he’s supposed to talk to about his shell-shock, no, it’s PTSD now.  At least, he assumes they’re qualified.  He’s never spoken to them.  Stark doesn’t seem to mind his impromptu confession, though.  

“Hard time readjusting, huh?”

“You can’t even begin to imagine.”  

“So that’s it?  You come back, and the first thing they tell you to do is come yell at me?”

“I think the term they used was _encourage_ ,” he answers ruefully.  “Honestly, I have no idea what Fury was thinking, but he promised he’d reconsider putting me back in the field if I got results.  It was worth a shot.”

“Hmm,” Stark shrugs noncommittally.  “So now what?  You’re back on desk duty?”  

“Pretty much.”  He’s not looking forward to it.  

“Nope, that’s not going to work.”  Stark’s speaks quickly and assuredly, and Steve looks up in surprise at his unexpected statement.  “Look, I know all about being benched, and it sucks.  I haven’t exactly appreciated you stalking my every move for the past few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I want to sentence you to _paperwork_.”  That last word sounds like an obscenity coming out of Stark’s mouth.  

“I’m not sure exactly what you want me to do.  You’re clearly working on the more important project, and I don’t want you to change your mind.”

“Yes, but you don’t need to tell Fury that!”  Stark sighs.  “Look, your job was to encourage me to finish the Helicarrier designs, right?  Well, encourage me.  It’s not your fault that I’m a stubborn ass.  Just stop by for a bit everyday to cover your tracks and tell Nick you’re working on wearing me down.”  

“That seems dishonest.”

“Eh, lie of omission,” Stark answers back.  “Besides, it’s still technically true.  Just keep telling me how much SHIELD would appreciate their shiny new toys, I’ll keep telling you to fuck off, and we’re good to go!”  

Steve still looks unconvinced, and Stark regroups.  

“Okay, how about this?  I solemnly swear that if I don’t meet Mount Sinai’s construction deadline, I’ll start working on those Helicarriers.”

That could work, Steve thinks.  Technically, he’s still holding up his end of the bargain, and there’s a slight chance that he might actually make it through this assignment with some visible result. There’s still a bit more subterfuge than he’d like, but it’s better than going back to SHIELD not being able to close a job.  He turns to Stark.  

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise!” he insists.  “Cross my heart, pinky swear, and all that jazz.”  

“In that case,” Steve responds slowly, “I think we have a deal,” He extends his hand for a second time.  “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Stark.”  

“If we’re going to see each other willingly on a regular basis, you should probably call me Tony.”  

“All right, Tony,” he acknowledges.  “Then I’m Steve.”  

Stark takes his hand for the second time, and this handshake is much warmer.  “Great!  I’m looking forward to all of your encouragement, Steve.”  His voice isn’t sincere at all, but the sarcastic grin looks genuine.  

Steve returns the handshake and smiles ruefully, wondering just what he’s got himself into.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tony.”  

 


	5. Upgrades

Steve is late.

It’s not like it matters, but the guy's been here at the crack of dawn for the past two weeks, so when he doesn’t show on the morning he _actually has permission to be here_ , Tony’s allowed to be concerned.  Slightly.  Mildly inconvenienced.

Tony still has no idea what made him invite Steve into his lab.  There are tenured PhDs who would sell their firstborn for ten minutes down here, yet the only person he’s ever invited inside is some SHIELD agent with an agenda.  It makes absolutely no sense, but Tony can’t quite bring himself to regret it.  Maybe it was the fact that Steve actually seemed to care about what Tony was creating instead of the standard SHIELD, please-thank you-build us more tech spiel.  He’d almost thought Steve’s offer to leave and never come back was a ploy, but that strategy would have depended way too much on Tony’s good graces, so not a great plan.

It just seemed mean to send him back to SHIELD empty handed.  With a body like that, there’s absolutely no way Steve is used to being a desk jockey, and it seemed like cruel and unusual punishment to banish the man to a cubicle.  (Cubicles are dark nasty places, and they must be avoided at all costs).  Nope, his lab was a supremely cooler place, and if someone has to hang out and do nothing, it’s better to do it somewhere that’s not a dark, dank corner of the SHIELD New York offices.  

Then again, the open invitation into his private domain really doesn’t matter if the invitee never shows.  He never knew Agent Stalker could be just as annoying when he wasn’t stalking!

It’s about ten o’clock when JARVIS finally announces that Steve is entering the building, and it’s all Tony can do from demanding an explanation.  He keeps his cool, though, pointedly ignoring as Steve walks down the steps and approaches the lab.  Steve taps gingerly on the left side of the door – the one that he didn’t break into pieces – and Tony gives the appropriate command for the doors to open.

“You lose your alarm clock?” he asks in a voice that’s supposed to be humorous but comes off a tad too close to accusatory.

Steve stops in the doorway, a confused look coming over his face.  “I’m sorry?”

“Come on, you’re here every day for the past two weeks and suddenly you decide not to show?  What if you’d been abducted by aliens?  That’s a legitimate possibility now.”

“I wasn’t…I didn’t think I needed to be here when – ”

“Calm down, I was just teasing.”  Good Lord, the man was actually blushing.  It was definitely _not_ adorable.  Try as he might to stay frustrated at Steve, his irritation at Steve’s inability to show on time was slowly giving way to amusement at the other man’s bumbling.  “I suppose there’s no actual reason for you to be here first thing in the morning.  The hallway just seemed so empty without you in it.  Come on in.”

Steve made his way into the lab, his habitual messenger bag still slung over his shoulder.

“I just went for a run,” he says as he walks in the door.  “I haven’t been able to get out that much here recently.”

“Gee, I wonder why?  Been busy or something?”

Steve pauses for a moment, as if he’s thinking over his response, before he answers.  “In a way.  I had a very important babysitting assignment that was taking up most of my time.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” Tony teases back.

“That’s how it is.  It makes scheduling a run kind of difficult.”

“Yes, you’ve definitely suffered,” he says drolly as his eyes travel up and down the blonde man and take in his frankly obscene muscles.

Steve grins sheepishly, and his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.  “Sorry about your door, by the way.  I don’t think I apologized for that yesterday.”

“You were trying to save me from death by imminent explosion.  I think you can be forgiven.  Besides, the contractors will be here this afternoon, so there’s really nothing to worry about.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“No, just do…whatever.”

The silence is deafening.  Now that Steve is here, Tony doesn't exactly know what they’re supposed to be doing.  Letting Steve join him in the lab sounded all well and good, but it’s somewhat awkward now that he’s standing here.

Steve seems to be thinking along those same lines.  “So,” he starts awkwardly, “what happens now?  Should I go wait outside?”

“No!” Tony insists.  “There’s no reason for you to sit on the floor when there are perfectly good chairs in here.”  He waves his hand in the direction of a table and chair that he rarely uses.  “Have a seat.  Do whatever you need to do.”

“Right,” Steve answers, still somewhat uncomfortably, “I’ll just go sit.”

As Steve crosses the room, settles himself in a plush leather rolling chair, and pulls out yet another thick book, Tony can’t stop a brief _Now what_ from crossing his mind.  He’d felt enough like a lab rat when he and the other man were separated by glass; now it’s about ten times as awkward.  He turns back to his array of holograms and tries desperately to think of plutonium isotopes and not the pink elephant in the room.

He eventually musters his attention to focus back on the blueprints for his latest model.  He doesn’t think increasing the radius of the interior cell will fix anything, but maybe if he embedded the most recent atomic variation in the hardware of one of his earlier models…

“JARVIS,” he calls, “bring up the files on the prototype I was working on the other day.”

“Would that be the A-16 or the A-17, Sir?”

“Go ahead and bring them both up on separate screens.   And show me the simulation results while you’re at it.”

“Would you like me to run a comparative analysis between the two prototypes?”

“Yeah, and go ahead and throw in the A-9 as well.  It lasted the longest in the mock trials, but I still have no idea why.”

“Very well, Sir.”  Within a couple of seconds, JARVIS has the test results on the screen, but they still don’t make any sense!  How does the A-16, which has a higher electric load, still manage to underperform the A-9?  Maybe if he adjusted the…

“What was that?”  Steve’s shocked voice sounds from behind him, much closer than it should be.

“Jeezus, warn a guy, would you!”  Tony spins to see Steve behind him, his eyes abnormally wide.  “They’re just holograms.  Granted, mine are definitely more advanced than anything SHIELD has, but they’re comparable.”

“No, I mean the man.  Who was that?  Is someone watching us?”  His eyes dart around the room, lingering on the corners for cameras.

“Oh.” Tony responds.  Steve’s minor freak out is marginally understandable now.  “No, that’s  JARVIS.”

“JARVIS?”

“Yup.  J, why don’t you introduce yourself?

“Very well, Sir.”  JARVIS’ voice rings from the speakers spaced throughout the room, and Steve tenses.  “My name is JARVIS.  I am Mr. Stark’s Artificial Intelligence system, and I am responsible for aiding Sir in his endeavors and ensuring the day to day functioning of the premises.”

“It can talk,” Steve says in a hushed voice.

“ _He_ can talk,” Tony corrects.  “He can also hear you and can answer for himself.”

“Indeed,” JARVIS’ voice announces from speakers in the ceiling, “I am more than capable of responding to any inquiries you direct my way.”

“Okay,” Steve answers uneasily.  “So he’s like your other robot.  Dum-E, right?”

“Most certainly not!” JARVIS insists, and it’s all Tony can do to repress a snort.  His favorite AI butler isn’t going to respond well to that comparison.  “Dum-E is a robotic entity with a concrete physical form and rather limited processing facilities,” JARVIS continues.  “His primary function is to assist Mr. Stark during hardware construction.  While I do not occupy a physical form, my computing powers are exponentially more advanced, and I am consequently capable of conducting a vast array of functions.”

And that’s how an AI puts a fool in his place.  Face as composed as he can make it, Tony turns to Steve and says, “I think you hurt his feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve responds, head alternating between Tony’s face and the ceiling.  “I’ve just never met anyone like you before.”  Tony assumes the last statement was directed at JARVIS.

“Actually,” he rejoins, “U’s over there,” Tony responds, gesturing toward the fabrication corner of the lab.  “U and Butterfingers.”

Steve follows his finger and his eyes take in the two figures on the other side of the room.  “I’m very confused,” he says after a moment.

Tony starts pointing at his bots, calling out their names as his finger circulates.  “U.  Butterfingers.  JARVIS is my eye in the sky.  And Dum-E…Dum-E, where are you?”  He looks around the lab and tries to find his problem child.  Dum-E knows he’s supposed to stay on his charging station when he doesn’t have a job to do, but there’s no telling what happens when he decides to go walkabout.  The last time Dum-E had gone into hiding, he’d broken the blender and hidden the shattered pieces behind the 3D printer.  It had taken him three days to locate the smell of rotting bananas.

“Dum-E, front and center!”

His recalcitrant bot finally peeps out from behind one of the support pillars and begins making his way toward them slowly, which is strange since he’s usually zipping around at about ninety miles an hour.

“Does he talk too?” Steve asks as his eyes warily take in the approaching bot.

“No, he generally just scoots around and knocks things over.  Occasionally he decides to drill holes in things.”

“But can he understand me?”

“Yes.”  He’s not sure where Steve is going with this until he steps forward with his hand in front of him, palm curved downward loosely.  When he starts to speak again, his voice is notably gentle.

“Hi,” he starts.  “I’m Steve.  I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day.  You’re Dum-E, right?”  His bot whistles in reply.  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Steve continues, “I just heard a loud noise and thought someone could be in trouble.  I didn’t know that you were a friend.  Could we start over?”

Dum-E inches forward, soothed by the soft tone of Steve’s voice, and it’s all Tony can do not to stare.  The bot slowly approaches Steve’s outstretched hand but stops just a few inches short of making contact.  Steve waits.  He wiggles his fist, as if to draw attention to it, but otherwise stays still, as if not to spook Dum-E.  After a moment, Dum-E lifts himself slightly by straightening his top hinge, and his pincer briefly brushes the underside of Steve’s hand.

“Good boy!”  A grin bursts over the man’s face, and he starts running his fingers back and forth across the metal claw.  “Thank you, Dum-E!

Well this is...odd.  Other than Steve treating his oldest bot like a dog – which, to be fair, is not the most inaccurate comparison – Rogers is actually taking it for granted that the robot has feelings.  More to the point, he’s treating Dum-E as if the robot is someone who’s capable of being hurt and making his own decisions.  It’s great that he’d made the jump from “sentient machine” to “something with agency” so quickly, but Tony’s not quite sure what to make of Steve _petting_ his robot.

Dum-E seems all for it though.  The spoiled brat is running his pincer up and down Steve’s hand and Steve appears fond of indulging him.

“He’s great,” Steve says as he turns back to look at Tony.  Dum-E seems unappreciative of the interruption and nudges Steve to continue his ministrations.

“He’s a menace,” Tony replies, not willing to let Dum-E get away with being a complete and total brat.  “He rarely does what he’s told, and he frequently breaks my things.”  The bot shrinks a little at that and draws even closer to Steve.  “Great!” Tony exclaims, gesturing toward his cowering bot.  “And now he’s a traitor.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” Steve responds, although his smirk says that he’s secretly amused.  “Seems pretty great to me.  You said you built him when you were seventeen, right?”

Tony’d forgotten he’d mentioned that little detail, but it’s oddly astute of Steve to remember it.  “Yeah, he was my senior thesis project at MIT.  Got sort of tired of professors telling me what to do, so I built Dum-E to shut them up.”  Of course, he’d never intended on keeping his senior thesis.  By the time he’d actually finished building Dum-E, his brain was already three steps ahead and working on ways he could improve the base technology.  He’d figured he’d submit the project for grading, accept the warranted acclaim, and then scrap the project for parts.  However, when it came time to leave MIT, he found himself wrapping Dum-E in bubble wrap and personally loading him onto the moving van.  He might be a dysfunctional bot, but Dum-E was _his_ dysfunctional bot.  It seemed unfair to tear him to pieces just because he had a few personality flaws.  Whatever.  He’s allowed to be sentimental every once in awhile, even if it occasionally results in him chugging motor oil smoothies.

He turns back to Steve.  “It was a pretty big deal at the time – first viable robot with artificial intelligence.  You can probably search for the pictures on your phone.”

Steve looks somewhat confused at that, and the hand petting Dum-E slows.  “How would I search for pictures on my phone?”

“Ummm, type it into the search bar?”  Tony asks slowly.  “I mean, the article originally came out in the late 80s, but I’m pretty sure it’s been digitized by now.”

“And how would I find that on my phone?”

“Google?”  He stretches the word into two long syllables, and his voice rises on the second half.  Seriously, this isn’t rocket science.  “Here, just give me your phone.”  Steve still looks skeptical and a bit confused, but he still lets go of Dum-E and reaches into his back pocket and –

He can’t stop the immediate _hiss_ that comes out of his mouth. Okay, so that explains a lot.

“What.  Is.  That.”  It’s not so much a statement as three accusatory words.  

“My phone?” Steve answers, looking down at the object in his hand.

“Steve,” Tony replies, “that is not a phone.  That is a fossil.  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that exact model marketed to senior citizens during Jeopardy between commercials for AARP and Life Alert.”

Steve frowns down at the offensive thing cradled in his hand.  “It’s SHIELD issued,” he starts to say.

“It’s a flip phone!  I understand budget cuts, but this is unacceptable!”

“It’s worked just fine for me.”

“That’s because it only makes calls!” Tony insists, not sure how Steve is living with the inadequacies of that phone.  Seriously, it looks laughably out of place down here, and the very sight of it offends him.

“Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?” Steve’s voice is surprisingly frustrated.   

“On the most basic level, but that’s a ridiculously narrow attitude to take toward a phone.”  Tony reaches out and grabs both of Steve’s shoulders, trying to ignore just how high of a reach that it is.  “Steve,” he starts, “if Windows Vista and Samsung had a sleazy one night stand, that phone is their torrid love child. And it’s not a pretty child either, Steve.  That phone is the kid that sits on the edge of the playground eating dirt while its parents wait on the farthest bench and pretend it doesn’t belong to them.  Seriously, if I ever see that flip phone again, we can’t be friends.”

Steve seems unable to grasp the nuances of his awesome sense of humor, because he still looks vague and uncomprehending.  Slightly disappointed, he lets go of Steve’s shoulders and steps back.

“JARVIS,” he calls, “have one of the interns bring down one of the StarkPhones that are about to go out for beta testing.”

“Tony, that’s really not – ”

“Aah aah ah, shush,” Tony replies not listening to Steve in the slightest.  “Tell them it’s a rush, please.”  Just then, a thought crosses his mind, and he turns again to Steve.  “On second thought, we might have a bigger problem.  What make and model of laptop did they give you?”

Steve mutters something under his breath with his face turned toward the ground.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I don’t have a laptop.”

“WHAT!?” he bursts out loudly at the SHIELD agent.  “What do you mean you don’t have a laptop?”

Steve stares.  “I’m not sure how much clearer I can be,” he says, as if it’s remotely reasonable to go around without a decent phone or a laptop.

He stares straight at the other man as he starts speaking to JARVIS, all the while questioning Steve’s sanity.  “J, just put me through to R&D.  I need to handle this one myself.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, a stressed intern drops off far too many boxes at the door, and Stark is ripping open the packages like a kid at Christmas.  Steve is trying desperately not to give himself away.

SHIELD had started him out on what they called “the easiest phone possible” so that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the advanced technology.  He personally thought they were coddling him, but he’d said thank you and taken what had been offered.  He still thought it was kind of amazing that you could call anywhere in the world from a phone that could fit in your pocket.  Tony seems less than impressed.  The inventor pulls out yet another sleek black thing from its packaging and finally turns to face Steve.

“Okay, so we’ve got you the latest line-up.  This,” he says, picking up one of the smaller rectangles, “is a StarkPhone 11.  I’ve already transferred all of your data from your dinosaur, so we never need to speak of it again.  Yes, it makes calls, but it’s also a web browser, a high-resolution camera, a GPS, a 64 GB music player, so on and so forth.  ”

Steve really wishes he’d explained the _so forth_.

“This is your tablet,” Tony continues, picking up the medium rectangle.  “There’s not as many visible updates on this model, but we’ve made it faster, slimmer, and given it more processing power.  This one also comes with a stylus, so you can draw on the screen if you need to.  And _this_ ,” he says, turning to the biggest object, “is your new laptop.  I went ahead them send up the one with all the bells and whistles, because they’re fun and you’ve been living in a tech desert.  High-resolution display, carbon-fiber chassis, advanced encryption technology, you name it.   This baby can pretty much do whatever you need it to.  But the best thing…”

Tony leans over the table and presses a button on the corner of the laptop.  The screen comes to life almost immediately, and a pleasant female voice emanates from the speakers.

“Good morning.  My name is Ana, and congratulations on the purchase of your new StarkBook.  Please let me guide you through the setup process.”

“This,” says Tony with no little amount of pride in his voice, “is Ana.  She’s a commercial grade AI who's now running in the newest Stark lines.  She basically runs all of your tech, and over time she adapts to your individual user preferences.”

Steve gulps.  She sounds much better at this than he is.  “So, she’s like JARVIS?”

“In a sense.  JARVIS in far more intelligent than Ana was ever intended to be, but she’s modeled along the same lines.  The best thing is, Ana communicates between all of your Stark devices, so once you set up one system, you shouldn’t have to repeat the process over and over again.  And everything’s hooked up to SI satellite internet, so you should get data pretty much anywhere.”  Tony looks ridiculously pleased with himself, and Steve’s sure he has a right to be.  The problem is, he has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to be appreciating.  

“Mr. Stark – ”

“Tony.”

“Tony,” Steve corrects, “I really can’t accept all of this.  It’s too much.”

“No, it’s not!” the other man insists.  “Steve, you are the official liaison to Stark Industries, keyword in that sentence being _Stark_.  I simply cannot have you running around town with a flip phone.  It offends me.  Like, on a spiritual level.”  Steve has a feeling Tony is not going to let this thing go.  “Besides,” he continues, “these models would all be going out for beta testing anyway.   _Someone_ has to work out the kinks, and that someone might as well be you.”

“I’m not sure if I’m exactly the best person to be field testing your new technology,” he starts.  “I’m not exactly great at – ”

“Pardon me, Sir,” JARVIS’ voice interrupts from the ceiling, “but the glaziers are here to install the replacement glass for your door.  Should I direct them to the lab?”

“Yeah, go ahead and send them down.”  Tony turns back to Steve.  “Seriously Steve, keep the tech.  You are in desperate need of an upgrade, and that flip phone hurts my soul.  Besides, if you’re not great with computers, you’re exactly the type of beta tester we need!  We have to make sure these models are user friendly and powerful.”

“But I – ”

“No buts,” Tony cuts him off.  He tends to do that a lot when things don’t go his way.  “I’ve gotta go babysit the workmen.  Don’t want them goofing off or sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.  You just set up your time and date preferences and I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Steve watches Tony walk away with something like despair.  This cannot end well.  

* * *

 

An hour later, Steve has completely changed his tune.  The internet is a beautiful, wonderful invention that is quickly becoming one of his favorite things about the twenty-first century.  

The hardest thing about adjusting to this era – apart from losing everything and everyone he’s ever known – is figuring out precisely what to expect from this new world.  The future, as far as he can tell has developed along no discernable trajectory.  Flying jetpacks are apparently “not a thing,” but the US sent monkeys to space in the sixties.  Witches are mythical figures from the pages of fantasy novels, but yes, of course aliens are real.  It’s all very confusing.  Everyone at SHIELD had been very kind about correcting his mistakes or providing him with reading material about the decades he’d missed, but he still gets the impression that their advice is doled out with a mixture of pity and patronization.  

The internet completely solves that problem.  All he has to do is click on the icon Ana highlighted during her “Welcome” tour, type a question into the gray box, and all the information he could ever want magically appears at his fingertips.  Better yet, anything underlined in blue pulls up _more_ information.  So far, he’s navigated from “Please show me a picture of Anthony Stark with first robot at MIT” to “Tony Stark MIT robot” to an article entitled “Tony Stark:  MIT’s Robotic Wonderkind.”  After skimming that article, he’d clicked on the blue “Stark Industries” link, read through some sort of encyclopedia page, jumped to a page on “Iron Man,” and was currently watching news footage of the Avengers fighting the Battle of New York.  

He’s a bit frustrated that SHIELD thought he couldn’t handle what was essentially a very fancy typewriter.  Everyone goes around assuming that he’s afraid of technology, all the while glossing over the fact that he volunteered for an experimental science program that pumped him full of chemicals and some sort of specialized energy ray.  Sure, he doesn’t quite understand the way these new devices work, but that doesn’t stop him from appreciating their capabilities.  That video footage, for example, is something that he should have been give access to a long time ago.  He assumes that the Avengers will be needed again sometime in the future, and it’s painfully clear that they need to learn to function as a team.  Their response to the Chitauri invasion had been a matter of necessity, but they’d basically approached the battle as six independent fighters trying to win a war.  True, there were moments of synergy – Black Widow and Hawkeye worked well as a unit, and at one point Iron Man had bounced a repulsor beam off of his shield – but those moments were few and far between.  Nope, this footage is a gift, one that he could only dream about during the war.  He needs to study this and analyze the ways he can improve his team.  

He’s watching cell phone footage of the Hulk in upper Manhattan (seriously, people can take videos with their cell phones now) when Stark finally gets through with the repair men.  

“All finished?” he asks as the inventor makes his way back over.  

“Yeah, it’s good as new.”  Tony drags a barstool from a nearby counter over to where Steve is sitting.  “Sorry about the wait.  I wanted to make sure they were installing the right type of glass, since that last pane broke so easily.  Those doors _should_ be shatterproof.”  Steve drops his head and tries not to make eye contact.  “Anyway,” Tony continues, “how’s the setup going?  Figuring everything out?”

“It’s wonderful!” Steve gushes, eager to steer away from the topic of windows that shouldn’t be breakable.  “I found that newspaper article you told me about, and I was able to read the whole thing, and after I finished, the computer started recommending other articles I might like to read.  It really is great.”   

Tony looks at him strangely, and Steve immediately wonders where he’s gone wrong.  “As much as I’d like to take credit for digital news,” he begins slowly, “that’s not really my doing.  That’s been around for...well, forever.”  

Steve can personally assure him that _no, it hasn’t_ , but he has no way of saying that without blowing his cover.  “I told you I wasn’t really good with tech stuff,” he mumbles.  

“Somehow I’m getting the feeling that’s an understatement.”

Here it goes.  He’s been waiting for the moment when he needed to put his cover story into place, but now that it’s finally come he can’t help but feel a bit nervous now that it’s time to go through with it.  The lie itches, like a burr nestled under his skin, and he can’t help but shy away from what he’s about to do.  As luck would have it, though, his cover story justifies his implicit shame and reticence to talk.  He just has to lay out the facts and hope that Tony will leave well enough alone.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Probably not.  

He takes a deep breath.  “I...wasn’t allowed to use technology when I was growing up.”  

Tony blinks rapidly.  “Run that by me again?”  

“I was pretty much raised by my grandmother.  She...really wasn't a fan of technology.”  Gosh, he's horrible at this!  “When I was a kid, she tried to keep things as simple as possible, so we didn't have a phone or television or anything.”  Tony’s looking at him with a combination of horror and confusion, as if the words coming out of Steve’s mouth just don’t register in his brain.  For a man as brilliant as Stark, the idea of living without the latest and greatest inventions must seem bizarre.  He’d probably be horrified to learn that Steve had lived in a building without electricity until he was six years old.  That detail would probably give away the game, though.  

He continues on, trying to make his admittedly thin excuse seem legitimate.  He channels Mrs. Jankowski and continues.  “I know it’s strange, but Nana was terrified of having newfangled contraptions in her house, and she was afraid radio waves were going to mess with her brain, so I wasn’t allowed to listen to music or watch television all that much.”  Or, you know, at all.  He sees the waves of incomprehension fade from Tony’s face to give way to something more aggressive.  

“But what does that even mean?!”  Tony bursts out, as if he can’t stand another moment of his ‘explanation.’  The frustrated inventor cards his hands through his hair and rushes on without giving Steve a chance to respond.  “Those things aren’t technology,” he insists, “they’re basically prerequisites for existence!  And you’re what, twenty-five, thirty?”  Steve mentally snorts at that one, but he lets Tony keep ranting.  “It’s nearly impossible to go that long without stumbling onto something technologically relevant.  How did you even survive the nineties without television?  It makes no sense!”  

“I know that _now_ ,” he insists, trying to draw on Tony’s incredulity.  The more Tony speaks, the less he has to lie about.  “But growing up I didn’t know anything different.”  

“Nothing?” Tony presses.  

“Not even a microwave.”  Out of all of the new technology he’s encountered in this century, the microwave is at the top of his list of favorite things.  Hot food on demand is not to be underestimated.  

Tony makes an inarticulate noise, more like a screech really, but presses on.  “What about school?  You must have at least had some brief taste of reality there?”

“Homeschooled,” he parrots, sticking to the story he and Natasha had agreed on.  

“What about when you turned eighteen?  Please tell me you didn’t continue the anti-tech crusade once you were legal.  I’m not sure I can handle that.”  

“No, but Nan died when I was eighteen, and I enlisted right after her funeral.  And you’re not exposed to civilization all that much in an active warzone.  I pick up most things pretty quickly, but most pop culture things go over my head.”  He’s secretly proud of himself for throwing in that idiom.  Now he just has to see if Tony’s convinced by the ruse.

He may have gotten lucky.  Tony’s sheer horror at his lack of familiarity with technology seems to have temporarily overwhelmed his power for speech – which is no easy feat, Steve thinks.  After several multiple attempts to begin speaking and some impressive eyebrow acrobatics, the other man finally starts talking.  

“Steve, no, I’m sorry that’s just wrong.  And crazy.  Like the moon landing was faked, Elvis walks among us, dingo ate my baby crazy.  We’re talking _vegan_ levels of unnatural here Steve.  Seriously, how are you even a functioning adult?”

Despite Tony’s humorous tone, Steve can’t help but feel that the other man’s struck a nerve.  Pretty much everything he’s just said has some grain of truth embedded in it, and therein lies the problem.  He crashed that plane into the Atlantic fully willing to give his life for his country, and he would do it again in a heartbeat, but he’s not quite sure if the country that he died for is the same country he woke up to.  Everyone’s assured him that he’ll adjust, in time, but they’re never able to specify just how much time that adjustment will take.  

“Believe me, I know,” he answers.  “I’m catching up with things.  Kind of,” he adds with a glance toward his stack of library books.

“Well you’re going about it in exactly the wrong way.”  Tony moves closer and sits on a nearby barstool.  “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re looking to make up for twenty years of living in a bubble, reading…” He reaches into Steve’s messenger bag and pulls out a thick book with a look of slight distaste.  “... _The Rise of Network Society_ is not the way to go about it.  That’s the surest way to give yourself a migraine as your brain slowly rots away.  If you want to understand the world, you have to _live_ in it.”  

Steve finds that somewhat ironic coming from a man who seems to live in his basement.  Granted, it’s a really nice basement, but in the two weeks he’s staked out Tony Stark, the man seems pretty much enmeshed in his own technologically advanced Cave of Wonders.  Nevertheless, the hypocrisy doesn't make Tony’s point any less true.  

“I’m trying,” he insists.  “Missing out on over twenty years of culture makes that a bit difficult.”  It’s more like seventy years, but Tony doesn’t need to know that.  The principle stands.

“We can fix that,” Tony announces in a sharp, abrupt voice.  He looks strangely... _invested?_   

“Fix it?”

Tony looks him straight in the eye, his former disbelief giving way to something harder and more resolute.  “Okay, to recap, you’re pretty much clueless about anything that’s gone on in the normal world over the last couple of decades?  No television, no movies, no tech outside of whatever second rate things the military chose to throw at you?”

“That sounds about right,” he responds, still not quite sure where this is headed.  

“We can fix that,” Tony repeats.  “Steve, in addition to my impressive tech credentials, I am a veritable fount of random pop culture knowledge.  I have accumulated decades of sci-fi data, my lab playlist is a carefully cultivated mix of essential rock classics, and years of SI functions have forced me to keep current with high-brow entertainment.  Trust me, you’re in good hands.  We’ll get you caught up to speed.”  

“You really don’t have to do that.”  

One side of Tony’s mouth quirks up, and he responds in a sly tone.  “I know.  That’s what makes me so nice.”  The inventor looks at him as if he’s supposed to know what that means, but Steve can’t fathom what exactly Tony wants from him.  After a moment, Tony’s expectant eyes crinkle.  

“Steve, we are going to have _so much fun_.”


	6. Plans

“He said he wanted to fix it?”  Natasha’s voice rings amazingly clear out of the speakers of Steve’s new phone, which is currently cradled between his ear and his shoulder and he darts around the room.

“Yes,” he replies as he gathers up his keys.  

“So he bought the story.”  

“I think so?” he tells her.  He hopes so, at least.  “He seemed more concerned with the fact that I’d missed out on twenty years of technology than anything else.”

“Yes, Stark would take that rather personally.”  

“He was really nice about it though,” Steve insists.  “He had all of this stuff sent down, and I spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out what all of it can do.”  He’s still not sure if that smart watch is something he should be using, since the specs are sure to come out abnormal.  Still, it was a nice gesture on Tony’s part.

“That’s great,” Nat answers after a moment, but her brief hesitation prompts Steve to think a bit deeper about her response.  Or rather, her lack of response.  

“Is it?”  Her answering silence speaks volumes.  “Nat, is there some reason why SHIELD didn’t want me using the internet?  It’s cleared up a lot of my questions so far, and I’m a bit surprised they didn’t give me access straight away.”

When her voice finally comes through a few seconds later, it’s carefully measured and lacking in inflection.  “There were concerns that exposing you to the new world too quickly would be too much to handle.  People didn’t want this century to overwhelm you.”

“Nat, if there’s anything about this century that’s overwhelming, it’s being so out of touch with everything!”  He jerks the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder harder than necessary, and his face presses into the phone’s touch screen.  

“I know, Steve.  I know.  If it helps, the decision wasn’t a unanimous one.  Besides, the choice is out of SHIELD’s hands now.”

Yes, it helps, but it doesn’t exactly solve the central issue of SHIELD treating him like a grenade primed for explosion.  If anything, their coddling makes things worse.  Nat’s right, though; there’s nothing they can do about it anymore.  Still somewhat disgruntled, he turns his attention back to the conversation.

“How’s your mission going?”  

“Boring.  We’ve basically been alternating stake-out duty for the past four days, but nothing’s really happening.  Clint says hi, by the way.”  Steve thinks he can hear a muffled _Hi, Steve_ coming from somewhere on Natasha’s end of the line, and he briefly bites back a pang of jealousy.  He can’t help but feel that boredom is relative.  

“We should be back in a couple of days, though,” she continues.  “A week tops.  I can’t really see these guys holding out much longer.”

“All right.  Be safe, and let me know when you get home.”

“Sure, grandpa,” Natasha replies with a snort.  The conversation ends with a beep, and Steve moves to put his phone in his pocket when something catches his eye.  

***Bring bagels.***

The message flashes across his screen, and he can’t help but wonder who is messaging him and requesting food.  Is this one of those wrong number things?  He’s just about to type in a reply, when a second message pops up.  

***Come as quickly as possible, but bring bagels.***

Steve can only think of one person who could possibly mean to send him that message, and he’s currently buried in the depths of a Manhattan skyscraper.  Steve slides his finger across the screen to unlock his phone and begins to compose his very first text.

***Tony?***

***Who else sends you random bagel texts?***

***Fair enough.***

He still can’t help but find the request a little out of the blue, but when has Tony Stark ever been normal?  

***Any particular requests?***

***Surprise me.***

***But bring cream cheese.***

***The one with the chives.***

Okaaaay, so the future has cream cheese with chives.  Good to know.  He doesn’t know exactly where to find it, but he’s sure he can figure it out.  He starts typing again.  

***Just leaving now.  Be there in about twenty minutes.***

***K***

After a few moments of a blank screen, Steve determines that their conversation is over for now.  He moves to close the app, when a pop-up catches his eye:  “Would you like to save this contact?”  

Well, it’s too late to turn back now.  He quickly enters in the information for Stark, Tony and then presses the home button on his phone.  

“Ana,” he asks with deliberate care, “where is the nearest bagel shop?”  

It only takes Ana a couple of seconds to do something that would have take him several minutes with a phone book and a map.  “Getting directions to bagels in your area.”  

* * *

 

“Food!”  

The moment Steve walks through the door, Tony makes a beeline for the man holding the oh-so-promising brown paper sack.  He’s glad to see Steve, but he is particularly happy at the prospect of eating for the first time in twelve hours.  

“Nice to see you too.”  Steve hands over the bag with a bemused smile on his face.  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just sort of got a variety.  Your cream cheese is in there too.”  

“You’re wonderful,” he says as he opens up the bag.  “Lunch is on me.”  

“Sorry if they got a bit squashed on the way over,” Steve apologizes, slowly shrugging off his messenger bag and removing his jacket.  “The saddlebags were a bit full, so I had to carry the bagels.”

“Saddlebags?”

“Yeah, on my bike.”  

And just like that, the process of spreading cream cheese with a cheap plastic knife seems fundamentally less important.  He tries to keep his voice level as he replies, “Are we talking bike as in bicycle or bike as in…”

“Motorcycle,” Steve interjects.  “A Harley-Davidson Softail Slim.”

Tony immediately files that image away in the section of his brain labeled “Things We Do Not Think About.”  He is _not_ thinking about Steve riding a motorcycle.   _Not_ thinking about Steve straddling the leather and chrome of a Harley and zooming through the streets of Manhattan.   _Not_ thinking about Steve with wind-tossed hair and bagels in hand like the world’s most attractive secret agent/delivery boy.  There, see?  Gone.  Not thinking about it.  At all.  

“Nice,” he manages to choke out quickly moving on from the Thing That Must Not Be Named.  “Wait, what else did you bring?  Not another stack of history books?”  

“No, I think I learned my lesson.”  Steve reaches into his bag, and pulls out his laptop.  “I just brought everything from yesterday.  I didn’t know what exactly you wanted me to do, so I figured I’d best grab everything.”  

“Boy scout,” Tony scoffs and bites into one of the bagels.  “So, did you play around on the internet like I told you?”  

“I did.”

“And?  Did you find appropriately funny pictures of cats?”  

“Not quite sure why I would be looking for cats, but I was pretty much able to find everything I search for.  Ana’s great.”  

Steve looks pleased, as if he’s not just saying it to spare Tony's feelings.  “And the phone?”   

“Great too!  I still haven’t used most of the features, but I think it will work really well.”  

“So we can finally get rid of that monstrosity?” he asks and extends one finger accusatorily toward the flip phone resting on the corner of the desk.  It had hurt him to let the thing rest in his lab overnight, but he didn’t want Steve falling back on bad habits.  He’d agreed to hang onto the relic just in case Steve showed remarkably poor judgment and rejected his tech, but he’s thoroughly looking forward to the flip phone’s ultimate destruction.   

“Yes,” Steve replies, still in a good humor.  “I am now appropriately aware of its deficiencies.”  

“Once you go Stark you never go back,” he answers.  On reflection, that statement sounded slightly less pervy in his head.  Moving on.  

“So how do we do this?  We’re basically in power tool Candy Land, so we have options.  Personally, I’m torn between chainsaw and welding torch, but I’m open to suggestions.”  

“What are we doing with a welding torch?”  Really, Steve doesn’t look nearly as enthusiastic as he should be.

“Destroying the eyesore.  It _is_ a flip phone, so we could rip it apart and go halfsies.”

“Tony, we are not destroying my old phone.  It’s unnecessary.  Besides, aren’t you supposed to recycle the battery anyway?”  

“Technically, but...wait, when did you become an expert on lithium ion batteries?  I thought you didn’t know anything about this stuff!”  

“I don’t, or at least I didn’t.  But I read the manual.”  

“You read the manual?  The actual StarkPhone manual?”  

“Well, the PDF version that Ana gave me.  It was very useful.  I still don’t understand the point of some of the functions, but I’ll get there eventually. What?”  He seems somewhat put off by Tony’s blank stare.  

“Nothing, it’s just I can’t believe you’re real.  People who read that doorstop are generally classified with the wooly mammoths and unicorns.  I should probably march you upstairs to Customer Relations so they can worship you as a god.”  

“Again, unnecessary.  No Customer Relations and no trashing of my old phone.”

“Steve, I am a pioneer in green energy.  SI runs one of the most prominent lithium ion recycling programs, and we’ve spearheaded several initiatives to cut carbon emissions.  I think I’ve earned this.”

“No,” Steve answers back, and the smile on his face suddenly makes Tony very nervous.  “I think I have a better idea.”  He swipes the phone off of the desk and focuses on a point directly behind Tony.  “Hi, Dum-E!”  

Tony spins, and sure enough, Dum-E has gradually snuck up behind him as he and Steve have been talking.  He’s not quite sure if what his robot’s doing can be called eavesdropping, since Dum-E doesn’t have ears, but the bot’s definitely picking up stalkerish tendencies from Steve.

“Dum-E,” he says takes another bite of his bagel, “what are you doing?”

The robot bobs up and down on his hinges, indicating Lord knows what, before turning his pincer toward Steve.  As if summoned, the SHIELD agent approaches Dum-E and squats down, which is also stupid since the bot doesn’t have eyes either.  

Steve seems unaware of the inherent illogic of his actions, because he stays hunched over and starts talking into Dum-E’s claw.  “So, it looks like everyone’s getting new tech,” he starts, “and I don’t exactly need this thing anymore.  I was wondering if you might like to have it.”  Extending his hand, Steve lets the flip phone hover in front of Dum-E’s pincer, and the robot slowly extends his claw.  The bottom two sections of his claw squeeze around the bottom half of the phone while the top one slips underneath the seam of the lid and flips up the display screen.  When he meets with success, Dum-E lets out a perky little squeak and starts waving the phone around in the air.  

Tony built Dum-E primarily as a thought experiment, to prove once and for all that artificial intelligence _was_ a viable possibility and _could_ be achieved before the turn of the century.  His senior thesis presentation had pretty much shut up the naysayers, and Dum-E’s adaptive code had served as the model for every other tech developer to emulate.  What Tony hadn’t included in his presentation was how utterly moronic his creation could be.  His pitch had mentally gone something like, “BEHOLD THE WONDER OF THE MODERN AGE ~~who frequently runs into walls~~.  THIS INNOVATION WILL REVOLUTIONIZE THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT w ~~hen he’s not staring at a pinball machine for hours on end like it’s robot porn~~.”  Thank God his committee had bought it.  Over the years, he’d thought Dum-E had gotten slightly less, well, _dumb_ , but this latest episode is disproving all of his theories.  

Because Dum-E is beeping and chirping and gesturing with the flip phone like Christmas has come early and he’s just been gifted the shiniest, most impressive present instead of a disabled cell phone that belongs solidly in the early 2000s.  More than that, Steve looks far too pleased with himself.  

“Steve,” he begins exasperatedly, “you are _not_ giving outdated tech to my outdated tech.  Who is he even going to call?  Not that he can call anyone, the phone’s disabled, but the principle stands.  That is incredibly stupid and unnecessary and just plain wrong!”  

“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve shoots back as he watches Dum-E continuing to flip the phone open and shut, “he seems plenty happy to me.”

Rogers is exceptionally more mischievous than he thought, the little shit.  “Nope, I’m putting my foot down.  Dum-E, hand over the merchandise.”  

But his bot, _traitor that he is_ , rolls backward and clutches the phone to his center support.  

“Dum-E,” he warns, extending his hand.  “What did I just say?  Now!”  His voice apparently isn’t terrifying enough, because the bot turns suddenly and starts dashing across the room.  “Get back here you overgrown pair of tweezers!  That eyesore is not your personal toy!”  

But his problem child continues to be problematic, and Steve, damn him to the darkest pits of a technically bereft hell, is laughing under his breath.  Tony briefly considers running after Dum-E, but there’s something about chasing a cell-phone clutching robot around the lab that seems undignified.  He glares darkly at Dum-E’s retreating form and turns back to Steve, muttering “I know where he charges.”

“Oh, let him have it.  He seems like he’s having a good time.”  

“You,” Tony barks as he turns, “do not get a say in this.  You come into my lab, break my windows, and corrupt my robots.  I don’t know why I put up with you.  And keep your grimy paws off of JARVIS!”  

“I thought JARVIS didn’t have a physical form?” Steve snaps back with a smile on his face.  

“And now you’re sassing me about my own tech!  Behave, or I swear I’ll make you sit out in the hall again!”  Despite his outraged tone, he can’t help a smile from peeking out of his lips.  

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.  It took me two weeks to get here.”  

“Damn straight.”  Tony takes a moment to gather himself, secretly amused by events but still determined to swipe that – thing – away from Dum-E when Steve’s not looking.  

“I really do like this phone, though,” Steve says as he pulls the new model from his pocket.  “Thank you again.”  

“Don’t mention it.”  It takes him a moment to remember exactly what he was doing before Steve walked in and started causing problems, but eventually he remembers the Isotope Issue that’s dominated his brain for the past month.  “I really do have to work, but let’s get you set up.”

“Okay, so I admittedly have limited experience with recovering technophobes, no offense – “

“None taken.”

“ – but it’s painfully clear you need to be brought up to speed.  So I figure the best way to do that is to set a baseline for what you do and don’t know.”

Steve nods.  “Right.”

“So my idea was to kill two birds with one stone.  I need to figure out what is it you need to know, and you desperately need culture.  Our solution?  Hollywood.”

Once again, Steve looks adorably confused.  To be honest, he seems to spend half his time with that somewhat puzzled look on his face, but at least he doesn’t look as dejected as he did the other day.  “I’m not sure I follow you.”  

“Steve, movies are hallmarks of their time.  Everything that gets produced, even if it’s a period piece, holds certain markers of a culture’s mores and values.  You should be able to learn about modern life from what people choose to put on screen, not to mention gleaning secondhand information about tech.”  

“That...makes sense.”  

“Good.”  Tony nods.  He wasn’t sure how open Steve would be to this idea.  “Here’s what we do.  JARVIS has a set number of films queued up for you to watch.  As you watch a movie, make a note of anything that confuses you, and I can answer your questions later.  Over time, we should be able to get a general idea of what your strengths and weakness are.”  

“That sounds reasonable.”  

“In addition to that, the films will be useful themselves. People just sort of expect you to know a set number of movie tropes.  It’s kind of like a social right of passage.”  

“Believe me,” Steve says wryly, “I’m familiar with the concept.”  

“Good, so eventually we’ll need to work your way around to things like _Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter_.  Total fantasy films, but you’ll understand so much more of what’s going on around you when you get the in jokes.”  In a way, he’s sort of envious of Steve, getting to experience those franchises all at once.  Though on second thought...

“Fair word of warning, some of those films are better than others.  Something like _Pulp Fiction_ requires your sustained attention, whereas all you need to know about _Snakes on a Plane_ is that Flynn has had it with the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane.”  He pauses, for a moment, thinking through the list he’s compiled.  “In fact, I’m sort of on the line about letting you watch Episodes 1-3 of _Star Wars_.  True, they provide backstory, but at what cost?”  Steve looks confused and perhaps rightfully so.  He’s yet to encounter the floppy eared monstrosity.  Then again, without suffering through the Gungan, Steve won’t get to encounter the joy that is Mace Windu.  It’s a quandary.  He’s going to call it the Jar Jar Paradox.  

Tony continues.  “And we’d probably better add some Disney to your repertoire, because at some point someone’s going to hoist a cat into the air while screeching random syllables, and you’re not going to know what’s going on.”

“Isn’t Disney an animation company?”  Steve still looks perplexed, but overall he’s taking the information overload rather well.  

“Yes and no.  They started out that way, but they’ve bought Pixar and Lucasfilm and ABC, so they’ve got tentacles everywhere.  Not to mention that fact that they’ve discovered the moneymaking machines that are reboots.  Since they’ve tapped into our overwhelming cultural nostalgia with great success, they’re pretty much just going to keep churning out remakes and sequels for time immemorial.  In fact, I’m pretty much convinced they secretly rule the world.  We’re all living in a fantasy of Disney’s making, and they’re slowly sucking our lifeblood to power their all-encompassing corporate structure.  We probably won’t escape until we die, age out, or collapse from exhaustion.”  He mentally adds _The Matrix_ to Steve’s list.  Only the first one, though.  The sequels need not be mentioned, see the Jar Jar Paradox for further reference.  

He finally breaks out of his monologue and looks up at Steve.  Right, that spiel probably made no sense to someone who’s not been exposed to cinematic genius and/or has spent far too much time fighting a war in the desert.  

“So, to recap,” he starts, “watch movies, note the weird things, talk to me.  Got it?”

“Sounds great,” Steve answers.  “Where exactly would you like me to do all this?”  

“Over here.”  Tony walks toward the couch he generally crashes naps on in between work sessions, and Steve follows.  “JARVIS, queue the screen.”  

Tony thinks nothing of walking through the digital projection that’s just shot down from the ceiling, but it stops Steve short.  “Don’t worry,” he assures the wide-eyed agent, “you can’t hurt it.”  He can see the other man bracing himself, but Steve eventually carries on through the projection without stepping around the images.

“Does everyone have those?”

Tony snorts; as if.  “No, at least not for another ten years or so.”  

“That’s comforting.”  

Tony reaches for a pair of headphones that he’d set on the couch before Steve got here.  “Fair warning, it gets sort of loud in here.  You should be able to hear the audio through these.  You can also hear JARVIS through the earpieces, so if you have any questions feel free to ask him.  As for me, I’ve got to work.”  

Steve steps in closer to take the headphones.  His hands settle on the headpiece, but he doesn’t move to take them just yet.

“Thank you, Tony,” he says on an exhale, and his voice is surprisingly sincere.  

Tony’s immediate response is to snap back with something sarcastic and clever, as he usually does in these situations, but he looks at Steve’s open eyes and then follows his eye line to where their hands are tethered by the headphones, and he just can’t do it.  

“You’re welcome.”  

* * *

 


	7. Accusations and Revelations

“Launch!”  

Almost immediately after the syllable leaves Steve’s mouth, the tennis ball flies from Natasha’s hand and soars across the room.  The bright green flashes by in a perfect arc toward the target at the opposite end of the gym, nearly invisible to anyone without his enhanced reflexes.  

Excluding Clint, of course.  The moment before the ball hits the target, an arrow whizzes by and strikes it dead center.  The ensuing momentum propels the ball into the center of the bullseye, where it’s firmly pinned with a soft _thunk._

Steve grins.  It’s a credit to both Natasha and Clint’s skills that they managed to pull off that move so quickly.  Together, they’re the perfect combination of speed and accuracy that’s going to make them deadly to any enemy they come up against.  More to the point, this maneuver is something that could potentially be used to target hostiles from a distance.  Natasha’s got a range of about 30 meters on a good day, and he can easily pass the 100 meter mark; given Clint’s pinpoint aim, it’s possible that they can use this combo to ignite flash grenades or something similar in the future.  Not that they’ve needed the gesture recently, but it never hurts to be prepared.  

It’s been nice, incorporating this training with Nat and Clint into his daily schedule.  When they’d gotten back from their prolonged stakeout mission, they both had been receptive to his suggestion that they start training as a team and crafting a fighting style that prioritizes collaboration over individual abilities.  So far, their three person team had been going rather well.  He can see a definite improvement in their performance over the past few sessions, and he has a feeling they’re only going to get better as time goes by.  

Of course, these meetings would be a lot more productive if he wasn’t working with a fraction of the team.  Clint and Natasha are amazing assets, but they’re admittedly the least enhanced members of the Avengers.  The strategy sessions would be much more effective if they addressed the strengths and weakness of the _entire_ team, but Thor’s been a no show since he took his brother back to Asgard, Bruce is off in parts unknown, and Iron Man...he honestly has no idea how to get in touch with whoever wears the Iron Man suit.  He assumes they’re somewhere in New York – they’d have to be to respond promptly when Tony’s in need of assistance – but there’s absolutely no way of finding out their identity without going through Tony, and that would just seem like a breach of trust.  Plus, there’s not really a good reason why Steve Rogers, Agent of Shield, would be concerning himself with the Avengers’ tactical maneuvers.  It raises questions, and Tony’s smart enough to connect the dots if Steve gives him the material to work with.  

For now, though, he’ll take what he can get.  Training with Clint and Natasha and the mornings and spending his afternoons with Tony have given him a sense of normalcy that was severely lacking from his life.  He’s not quite at ease in this century; he’s not sure he’ll ever be, but his days are vastly more meaningful now that he has a purpose.  He knows that as soon as he finishes up here, he’ll shower and bike over to Stark Tower, where he’ll watch some bizarre film, listen to music that’s far too loud, and watch Tony try to change the world.  Speaking of which…

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and checks the lock screen.  Tony’s usually texted him by this time in the morning.  Sometimes it makes no sense and he has to conduct several internet searches before he can make sense of Tony’s text speak, but they’ve usually established contact by this point in the day.  Sure enough, he’s got one unread message.  

* **What do you want for lunch?***

Grinning, Steve swipes right and starts typing out his answer.  

***I don’t know, you decide.***

Within moments, he’s got an answer.  

***Really?***

***That’s how you’re playing it?***

***Playing what?***

***Come on, let’s not do the back and forth.***

***What do you want to eat?***

***It really doesn’t matter to me.***

***I’ll eat anything.***

***Our foray into Indian food says otherwise.***

***That was not food.  That was fire.***

***Wimp.***

***Forgive me if I want to be able to feel my tongue after eating.***

***Okay, then TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT.***

***I DON’T CARE.***

***Okay, then I’ll just order you Kozi Kari again.***

***Anything but that!***

Steve has absolutely no idea what the little video clip means or even how Tony got it to play on his phone, so it takes him a moment to think of a response.  He’s just about to start typing when a voice interrupts his thought process.  

“Hello, Earth to Steve.”

Startled, he looks up to find Clint and Natasha staring at him.  Nat’s clutching yet another tennis ball loosely in her fist as if she’s ready to continue throwing, but Clint’s holding his bow haphazardly to his side.  Oh, right.  They were sort of in the middle of something.

Natasha glances briefly at his phone and then back up to his face.  “You still with us?”

His response is somewhat sheepish.  “Yeah.  Sorry about that.  I was just squaring things away with Tony.”  Although it had been rude to completely ignore his teammates.  But while they’re here, it can’t hurt to ask.  “Hey, do either of you know what this means?”  He passes his phone to Natasha, who raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow when she finally gets a look at his screen.  

“Umm, I think it’s something from a children’s movie.  Clint?”

The archer makes his way over to her and peeps at the screen.  “Yeah, it’s a clip from that weird raccoon movie that came out a couple of years ago.  What is it – something – _Into the Wood_ s, wait, no, hedge.  Into the – no, Over.   _Over the Hedge_.”  Clint snaps his fingers on the final word and looks remarkably pleased with himself.  “Convenient that your name’s Steve.  That works really well.”  After a moment, his face shifts into a look of confusion.  “Why is Stark texting you gifs from children’s movies?”

Steve mentally adds the word _gif_ to his list of things to ask JARVIS before replying.  “Nothing.  We’re just trying to figure out what we want to do for lunch.”

“And that requires obscure references to animated movies?”

Steve has no answer for that.  After a moment of silent, Clint turns his attention back to Steve’s phone, which he promptly plucks from Natasha’s hand.  He rotates the device, looking at it from all possible angles.  

“What even is this thing?”

“My phone,” Steve answers.  “I thought we’d just established that.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t ever seen a model like this.  SHIELD must’ve gone all out for you, you lucky dog.”

Slightly embarrassed, Steve reaches to pluck his phone from Clint’s hands.  “No, that was Tony actually.  He gave me an SI prototype, since he disapproved of the model SHIELD gave me.”  That was probably an understatement.   _Disapproved_ is probably the mildest word he can use to describe Tony’s reaction to the flip phone.  But to be fair, it’s been almost three weeks and Dum-E’s still scooting around with his toy, Tony’s glares notwithstanding.  

This time it’s Natasha that speaks.  “Stark just gave you a new phone?”

“Yes?” he queries, not quite understanding the confusion.  “It’s not a big deal.  He’s just letting me use one of the models the company would have sent out for beta testing.”  He’s pretty sure that’s the word Tony used.  

“It’s sort of a big deal when someone just gives you a phone that expensive,” Clint retorts.  “Previous StarkPhones with that type of processing speed and storage typically run over a grand.  I can’t even think of how much this one will cost when it hits the market.”

“Over a thousand dollars for a phone?!”  Christ, he’s never going to get used to inflation.  Still, even adjusting for his antiquated conception of money, that still seems a ridiculously high amount to pay for a cell phone, no matter what it can do.  

“At least,” Natasha answers back.  

“Think you can get us hooked in on that deal?”  Clint teases.  

Natasha briskly cuffs the back of his head.  “ _Behave_.  You are not leveraging Steve for a better phone.”  

Clint’s hand comes up to his head.  “Yeah.  Not all of us can have a sugar daddy like Stark,” he answers, rubbing his scalp.  

Steve’s not familiar with that colloquialism, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.  “What does that mean?” he asks Clint, secretly knowing he’s not going to like the answer.  His assumption is confirmed when Clint suddenly looks sheepish.  

“Nothing.  Forget I said anything.”

No.  That is not the way this works anymore.  Just because he’s slightly out of touch with modern vernacular doesn’t mean he has to put up with people talking in circles around him.  Without breaking eye contact, he brings his phone parallel to his mouth and speaks directly into the audio receiver.  “Ana, what’s a sugar daddy?”  He can see Clint wince and start to blush, while the tiniest smirk hovers around Natasha’s mouth.  

After a moment, Ana’s all-knowing voice rings out of the phone.  “According to Webster’s dictionary, a sugar daddy is a wealthy, usually older man who gives expensive gifts to someone much younger in return for companionship or sexual favors.”

 _“WHAT???”_  Steve’s voice echoes off the walls, and he can feel his face burning a brilliant red.  “How could you even think that?”  He hasn’t known Clint for that long, but he didn’t think the other man would think so poorly of him.  Not that Tony isn’t a swell guy, but there are some lines he’s _not_ willing to cross for his country, and trading sexual favors for financial benefits has always been a hard limit.  

Clint, to his credit, looks chastened.  “Look, it was just a joke.”  

“It didn’t sound like it to me!”  

Clint makes brief eye contact with Natasha, and it seems to Steve as if they’re communicating nonverbally.  When he starts speaking again, his voice emerges in a series of nervous, clipped statements.  

“Look, I’m not saying that you – Stark is – is not as if I’m – you and Stark just seem really – ”

“What Clint means to say,” Natasha cuts in, “is that he has a terrible sense of humor, and he’s very sorry for implying anything inappropriate.”  

“Right, sure.”  Clint nods, but sarcasm is still thick in his tone.

“No,” Steve insists, “I want to know what you meant.”

“All I’m saying is that you and Stark seem to be really close.  That’s all.”

“Well of course we’re close.  It’s my job to liaise with Stark Industries, since apparently there’s nothing better for me to do.”   _Fury assigned me to this job_ , he wants to insist, _you can’t fault me for doing it well._

“I know that.  You just seem to be really enthusiastic about it.”

“And that’s a problem?”  Honestly, he can’t see why Clint is making such a big deal of this, or why he’s implying and Tony are remotely inappropriate with one another.  

“No.  You just seem to have a special immunity to Stark.”

“Why would I need immunity from Tony?”

“Umm, to spend time voluntarily in his presence?  

Steve bristles at that.  “That’s uncalled for.  Tony’s a swell guy.”  Clint throws his palms up in a gesture of surrender and takes a slight step backwards.  

“And you’re one of very, very, _very_ few people that thinks so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Natasha cuts in, “that you’ve somehow managed to get close to Stark in a relatively short time frame.  And that’s unusual, particularly for Stark.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters you call him Tony.”

“That’s his name!” Steve insists. Honestly, this is getting to be a bit ridiculous.  

“That’s his first name,” Natasha rejoins.  “Very few people actually get to call him that to his face, and an even fewer number of people would call him a friend.  And I know of no one that actually has been invited to spend time in his personal lab.”

That’s slightly unfair.  He’s not exactly working in the lab _per se_.  “It’s not like I’m doing anything science related,” he insists.  “I pretty much just sit there and watch movies, read, or listen to music.”  At least what Tony calls music.  He’s still reserving judgment.

“Exactly.”  When he doesn’t respond right away, Nat keeps on talking.  “Steve, Tony Stark is the chief stockholder and lead developer for a Fortune 500 company, not to mention the exclusive mind behind the Iron Man armor.  It’s nearly impossible to make a dent in his schedule.  He’s thrown out each and every SHIELD agent that Fury has tried to send him over the years, yet you get pretty much unfettered access to him on a daily basis and, for all intents and purposes, have somehow managed to insinuate yourself into his personal life.”

Steve gulps.  “I wouldn’t exactly say _insinuated_.”  He’s having a hard time coming up with an alternative verb, though.  

Natasha goes on.  “You’re carrying an unreleased StarkPhone.  You see Tony Stark on a daily basis in his personal lab.   _You have his private phone number_.  Those things are each significant in and of themselves, but you throw them together and they sort of imply something.  Nothing bad, but definitely something.”  

He still doesn’t quite understand why this is all such a big deal.  Okay, maybe Tony is a bit particular about who comes into his lab, and it maybe it is a kind of strange that Tony’s devoted so much of his time to ensuring that Steve feels comfortable, but that speaks more to how Tony is just a genuinely good person, not because Steve’s anything special.  He still hasn’t quite worked out why Tony’s gotten along with him as opposed to the other field agents, but he’ll figure it out.  Eventually.  

What he does know is absolutely nothing Clint and Natasha have implied about him and Tony having a relationship is remotely based in fact.  They are colleagues who happen to get along well with one another.  

Unwilling to think about this any further, Steve grabs his bag and turns toward the door.

“I think we’re done for today.  See you guys tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Clint responds.  “Steve, I’m sorry if I – ”

“Forget about it.”  Steve forces himself to grin.  “Sparring tomorrow at eight?”

When both agents nod yes, Steve makes his way toward the door, but he faintly catches Nat’s _That’s bound to go well._  Putting them both out of his mind, he starts to reply to Tony’s momentarily forgotten text.  He most certainly does not need Tony placing his food order again.  He’s just finished typing out _What about Cesarios?_ when he’s interrupted by the buzz of an incoming message.  

***Nevermind, I’m just ordering Cesarios.***

* * *

 He actually beats the pizza delivery guy to the lab, but, ironically, they’re both stuck waiting outside.  Tony has entered into what he calls “hardware mode,” aka “breathe and you die.”  It’s happened once or twice in the past couple of weeks, when Tony thinks he has a viable isotope to test, and Steve knows that he’s not allowed to make any sudden movements, lest he cause Tony’s hand to slip at some pivotal moment.  He can just make out Tony’s profile through the glass, hunched over a table and holding something very shiny.  Yup, best not to disturb him.  Since he’s already outside the lab, he figures it’s best to just wait until Tony’s at a stopping point.  It’s not as if he doesn’t have practice sitting on that step.  

He pays the pizza delivery guy and digs into his order.  (No matter what Tony says, pineapple on pizza is a beautiful, beautiful thing.)  He’s just finished off his first slice when he finally thinks to consult JARVIS.  

“JARVIS,” he asks, looking up at the ceiling, “how long has he been like this?”  

“For the past half hour or so, Sir.  By my estimate, Mr. Stark should conclude his current welding task in approximately eighteen minutes.”  

“Sounds good to me.  I’ll just sketch or something until he reaches a stopping point.”  

It’d taken him a couple of days to get used to the disembodied voice coming out of the ceiling, but he’d quickly come to appreciate the value of having JARVIS around.  Only Tony would create an artificial intelligence that is capable of not only sassing him back but occasionally getting the better of him.  Plus, there’s the added bonus that JARVIS is a seemingly endless fount of knowledge about all of the things that Steve needs to know.  While that AI is more than capable of giving Tony sass, he’s unerringly kind about answering Steve’s unending stream of questions.  Speaking of…

“JARVIS,” he asks again, “could you explain what a gif is, please?  Tony sent me something this afternoon – ” he begins to reach back into his pocket to grab his phone, but JARVIS’ voice stops him.”  

“That won’t be necessary; I monitor all of Sir’s outgoing calls and texts.  I assume you are referring to the image of the possum Sir sent you earlier this morning?”

“That’s the one.”  

“The item Sir forwarded, Agent Rogers, is what is known as a gif, or a file in Graphic Interchange Format.  Gifs are image files that are compressed to reduce transfer time, and they often contain looped snippets of video files.  In recent years, internet users have frequently substituted gifs for text to supply a humorous, often nonverbal response.  In this particular instance, I believe Mr. Stark was drawing on the fortunate alignment of your name with the name of a character in a children’s film to solicit your food choices.”

Steve takes another bite of pizza and contemplates the recent deluge of information.  “Okaaay,” he says slowly.  “But where do you find these things?”

“The internet, Sir.  Everything can be found on the internet.”  

Boy does he know that by now. Still, if there’s one thing his rapid fire introduction to modernity has taught him, knowing that something exists on the internet and finding it are two different things.  “How do you know about going what to use?”  

JARVIS takes a moment before responding.  “That’s a bit harder to classify.  According to what I can gather, some users construct their own files, through somewhat questionably legal means.  Others pull their reactions from hosted websites, but the labeling system is somewhat sporadic.  Most usages of the gif rely on the ingenuity of the user and ability of the recipient to interpret the humorous juxtaposition.”  

Well, that sort of throws a wrench in his ability to play along.  He can appreciate humor as well as the next person, but it’s sort of impossible to strike back when he’s not working with the same level of experience.  It’s not like he has Tony’s near encyclopedic knowledge of B-rated movies, or JARVIS’s omnipotent…

Hmmm.  

Steve straightens as he prepares for the question he’s about to ask, although he’s not sure what purpose that serves.  What exactly is the protocol for addressing an artificial intelligence?  

“JARVIS,” he begins in the most innocent sounding tone possible, “would you be willing to help me pull one over on Tony?”

It takes JARVIS a moment to respond, but when he does, his typically moderate British voice emerges clipped and reserved.  “I am loyal to sir in all things.  My protocols forbid me from engaging in any form of deception.”

“I completely understand that,” Steve assures.  “This wouldn’t be less of a deception and more of a...leveling.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Steve takes a breath; he needs to get this one right.  “Considering that I haven’t seen a fraction of the films Tony has, he sort of has an unfair advantage in this whole texting-gif thing.  I’m working with limited resources, and I was just hoping you’ll help me even the odds.”

“How so?”  The automated voice sounds interested, which Steve chooses to take as a good sign.

“You seem to have a pretty good grasp of humor and sarcasm.”  Steve has learned his lesson; after his first, extremely misguided comparison of JARVIS to Dum-E, he’s grasped the value of a well-timed compliment.  Despite being a compilation of code and circuit board, JARVIS is acutely prone to flattery.  

“It is an unintended consequence of tending to Sir for so many years.”

“Exactly!” Steve nods.  “You’re probably able to wade through all of this modern stuff much easier than I would.  It would be nice if I occasionally didn’t feel like a complete idiot in his presence and was able to snap back with something relevant to our conversation.  You could help me with that.”

“Are you suggesting that I provide you with relevant gifs to exchange with Sir?  Forgive me, Agent Rogers, but that does seem a bit trivial.”

Steve doesn't know how and automated British robot voice manages to sound so judgmental, but JARVIS is definately judging him right now.  “Probably so,” he concedes.  “But just because something’s petty doesn’t mean it’s inconsequential.”  He thinks; it made sense in his head.  “The point is, Tony’s ridiculously competitive, and there’s absolutely no way I can match him on this.  With you on my side, that doesn’t have to be the case.”  He throws in one more for good measure.  “Besides, doesn’t this give you an outlet to vent some of your frustrations with Tony?”

“I am an artificial intelligence.  Venting is unnecessary.”

Steve resists the urge to snort.  He’s heard enough back and forth between JARVIS and Tony to seriously doubt the accuracy of that claim.  “But you’d enjoy it, right?” he counters.  

After a brief pause, Steve gets his answer.  ”The thought is...not unpleasant.”  

“Exactly!  We’ll tell him eventually, but not until I get in a few good comebacks.  Besides, just think of the mental anguish Tony will go through trying to figure out how I’m coming up with such good material.  It’s like a Tony-centric version of the Turing test.”  

“I do believe you’ve been socializing with Sir for too long.”

JARVIS is most likely right.  A month ago he wouldn’t have even known what the Turing test was, must less have referenced it in a conversation.  However, it’s probably impossible to spend 24 hours in Tony’s lab without getting a lecture on the superiority of his artificial intelligence programming and the future of adaptive technology.   _2001: A Space Odyssey_ had also been enlightening.  

Steve finally responds.  “Probably so, JARVIS.  Can’t say I regret it, though.”  Nope, not one bit.  Satisfied that he’s pegged JARVIS as a future ally, he settles down to wait until it’s safe to take his habitual place on the couch.  Opening up his sketchbook, he absentmindedly starts a brief pencil sketch, but the doodling is really not enough to stop his mind from straying to problematic thoughts.

He still can’t help but flashback to his earlier conversation with Clint and Natasha.  Despite his stringent objections that there was nothing going on between him and Tony, he wasn’t being as open as he could’ve been.  Yes, technically he and Tony are only friends, but that doesn’t stop his mind from straying into occasionally dangerous territory.  

To be fair, his love life’s been predominantly theoretical up to this point, albeit not by choice.  Before the serum, he didn’t exactly have people lining up around the street to date him, and afterwards the shield and mask had served as their own deterrents.  Call him old fashioned, but he kind of found it hard to establish an emotional connection with someone when you couldn’t even tell them your name.  Granted, it was endlessly frustrating having a body that people were finally willing to take a second look at but being unable to do anything about it, but he handled it.  When things got too bad, he just threw his shield around a little harder than was strictly necessary.   

Seventy years later, and he’s still got the same problem.  As much he craves intimacy, he’s still got a giant red, white, and blue secret hovering over every aspect of his private life, not to mention the fact that he’s technically a ninety year old man encased inside a twenty-something body.  Most people his own age are either dead or in nursing homes, a thought which always lingers at the back of his consciousness, and the people he meets who are in their twenties just seem so damn young, drunk on life in a way that’s no longer possible for him.  Small wonder he finds it hard to connect.  

Until Tony, that is.  Despite the various methods SHIELD had undertaken to acclimate him to the new era, he’s learned more in his weeks with Tony than in the months that he’s been awake.  More to the point, he’s comfortable in a way that he didn’t think would ever be possible again.  Down here he doesn’t have to be a useless relic or a man out of time; he’s just _Steve_ , a bit out of touch but nevertheless a guy.  He hasn’t felt that way in a really long time – before the serum, if he’s being honest.  And somewhere along the way, those feelings of rightness and normalcy got tangled up with his feelings for Tony Stark.  So much of his day-to-day interaction is tethered to the inventor and his laboratory, not to mention the fact that Tony is incredibly easy on the eyes.  Somewhere between the pizza and the movies and Tony’s random interjections about isotopes, he’d somehow grown attached to Tony in an unintentional and thoroughly inconvenient way.  He’d thought he’d managed to keep his emotions – whatever they were – in check, but apparently he’s not doing such a great job if Clint and Natasha were picking up on them.

It’s fine though.  If he can deal with being resurrected in a new century, he can deal with the aftermath of one misguided crush.  At least that’s what he thinks until he looks down at his sketchpad.  

It’s by no means his most inspired or technically proficient drawing.  In fact, all he’s done is recreate the scene just visible through the glass of the workshop:  Tony, bent over a workbench with some sort of delicate welding tool in hand.  The inventor’s mouth hangs slightly askew and his tongue just peeks out between over the left edge of his, as if an awkward facial contortion will somehow increase his concentration.  On the page, as in real life, Tony seems caught in the moment between stillness and movement, his inactivity poised to give way to finely-calibrated action.  He’s only got the bare bones of a sketch, and the items on the table are somewhat unfinished, but Tony’s hands and eyes are rendered in perfect detail.  Taking in the result of his inattentive sketching, Steve can only draw one possible conclusion; he has undeniable feelings for Tony Stark.  

_Fuck._


	8. Breathe

* * *

If he’s being honest with himself, being in love with Tony Stark doesn’t change all that much.  Sure, finally connecting all of the dots and acknowledging his feelings for what they are came as a bit of a shock, but it doesn’t alter his daily routine in the long run.  He still shows up every afternoon with food, and Tony still teases him about his lack of familiarity with pop-culture.  They go about their business as they usually do, but Steve’s eyes are opened to the consequences of their effortless synergy.

Falling for Tony was something like watch a sunrise.  One minute, you’re noticing the glimmers of light flickering on the horizon, and then all at one the whole skyline is bright and clear and dazzling.  His vision hasn’t quite adjusted yet, that’s all.  It’ll get easier with time.  

He’s not an idiot.  He’d known even before he’d crashed into the Atlantic that his eyes lingered over men’s hips just as frequently as they did over women’s curves.  At some point he’d had to admit to himself that, no, it wasn’t just an artist thing, and that he really did like to look at both sexes.  And by _look_ , he meant a hell of a lot more.  

However, looking is pretty much as far as anything got.  His scrawny and continually ill pre-serum self was just as good as driving away guys as it did galls, and even if he’d wanted to pursue something after Project Rebirth, he couldn’t risk being blue ticketed out of the military.  It was safer just to appreciate from the sidelines and stay well acquainted with his right hand.  

That in mind, it’s both ironic and immeasurably unfair that he’s woken up seventy years in the future, but he still can’t ask Tony out on a date.  Society’s finally gotten to the point where he could step out with a fella if he wanted to, but it just doesn’t feel right to try to get close to someone when he’s got this huge secret hanging over his head.  Well, _secrets_ , plural.  He is A) almost one hundred years old, B) a genetically enhanced supersoldier, and C) continually on call in case of an alien invasion.  Those are hardly the things you have to deal with when starting a relationship. The fact that Tony is Howard’s son is just an added bonus.

No, he just figures he’ll do what he does best:  suffer silently.  It seems to be working out so far.  

He keeps this in mind when he walks into the lab with two cups of coffee in his hands.  Despite the expense, Tony always insists that the best coffee within a three mile radius of the tower comes from the baristas he keeps on staff on the 20th floor.  For the past couple of weeks, it’s been Steve’s job to ride the elevator up and grab Tony the largest size available whenever Tony feels like a boost, which is Tony-speak for between each and every movie you watch.  Steve tries to say no – someone has to monitor Tony’s caffeine intake – but honestly, he ends up relenting half of the time.  Tony always just looks so _grateful_ when he comes back.  

Case in point:  the minute Steve walks in, he abandons his screens and snatches the cup from Steve.

“My hero!” he exclaims, before taking an enthusiastic gulp of his beverage.  Steve tries his best not to blush.  

“So,” Tony asks after a moment, “what’d you think of Hitchcock?”  

“He’s intense,” Steve answers.  “You’d think a man sitting in an apartment would make for a really boring story, but it was strangely compelling.  And a bit voyeuristic, to tell you the truth.”  Not to mention, Jimmy Stewart had aged well.  

“Yup, that’s Hitchcock for you.  So what’s next on the agenda?”  Tony waves his hand, and his Steve’s movie list appears on one of the floating projections in front of him.  So far, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the movies Tony’s chosen, but he definitely feels more in tune with people now that he can understand the subtext of what they’re saying. He’d actually laughed at Clint’s heavily accented   _I’ll be back_ the other day.  

Tony moves his fingers around and finally hovers over a title.  “Ooh, _Titanic_.  Smash hit of 1997, the start of Leo and Kate’s respective film careers, and an impressive eleven Academy Award wins.  You’ve got lots of great one liners in this one: look Jack, I’m flying, draw me like one of your French girls, never let go.  The thing’s full of solid need-to-know info.  Word of warning though, you’re allowed one and only one free pass on the song.  If I catch you singing, humming, or quoting the damn thing more than once, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

After several weeks of doing listening to Tony’s unique film introductions, Steve knows to just smile and nod.  He’ll figure everything out eventually.  “What song am I avoiding?”

Tony glares darkly.  “Trust me, you’ll know it when you hear it.”

He settles himself into the cushions of the sofa as Tony relocates to his work bench.  Going strictly off the title, he assumes that it’s some sort of romance about the passenger liner that sunk back in 1912.  Why that would make a good premise for a film, he doesn’t know, but it’s far from the strangest movie Tony’s had him watch.  

The real Titanic actually predates his birth, but he can remember his Mom telling him stories about it.  She’d been in her teens when the unsinkable ship had failed to make it to New York Harbor, and the newspapers had reported nothing else for days.  Years later, she could still recall the incident with perfect clarity.   _You can’t tempt fate_ , _Stevie,_ she’d always said.   _No matter how perfect or invulnerable something’s meant to be, there’s always a way to bring it down_.  He’d thought about that a lot after the serum.  

It’s a beautiful movie.  Whoever put this on obviously spent a fortune trying to get the details right, since all of the furnishings look like something he would have expected to find a century ago.  The costumes are exquisite, the leads are talented, and the underlying score is definitely catchy.  He keeps his eyes glued to the screen during the French girls scene – so that’s what Tony meant – but he subtly kicks the bag with his sketchbook further under the couch.  The blush on his cheeks has less to do with the nude woman on the screen and more with the engineer in the tank top across the room.  

When it happens, it happens quickly.  Later he kicks himself for not thinking of it sooner; Titanic _sinks_ , and it’s not as if the movie’s going to overlook that fact.  Sinking equals water and drowning and pieces of broken furniture disappearing under the waves.  Yup, he definitely should have thought it through.  

His chest starts seizing when the ship goes vertical.  They’re just characters in a movie, he knows that, but mentally he’s screaming for them to jump.  Jump, clear the wreckage as quickly as possible, and whatever you do, don’t stop moving.  Don’t let the frigid temperature of the water slow your movements, or the ice will creep inside your veins and pull you down to where it’s cold and deep and dark...

* * *

 Tony’s hypothesizing about the behavior of free electrons when his screens suddenly black out.  It takes him a moment to fully understand what’s going on.  His tech has powered off, and his tech never powers off without his consent.  

“JARVIS, what the hell is going on?”  

“Forgive me, Sir, but Agent Rogers is in distress, and you weren’t responding to my notifications.”  

Tony’s frustration immediately fades to concern as he looks over to Steve.  Steve usually shifts into a state of relaxation when he’s in movie mode.  Not so now.  His face is a sickly looking white, and he’s currently curled in on himself as if he’s in physical pain.  Within seconds, Tony is at his side.  

He can recognize a panic attack when he sees one.  Hell, he’s been there.  The first couple of nights after Afghanistan, he’d started up in his hospital bed, swinging at terrorists he knew were dead.  Thank God Rhodey’d been there to talk him down.  Steve had always been annoyingly vague about his “classified” military background, but Tony get’s the impression that he’s seen some serious shit.  Lord knows what’s going on inside Steve’s head right now.  

He quickly racks his brain for what he’s supposed to do.  It’s supremely ironic that the experiences he’s tried so hard to forget are the ones he’s desperately in need of at the moment.  Trying to remain as objective as possible, he starts speaking in what’s hopefully a comforting tone.  “It’s all right Steve.  You’re safe.  You’re in New York, in Manhattan, in Stark Tower and everything’s safe.”  The soft, soothing voice sounds strange coming out of his mouth, but he keeps going.  “Listen to me, Steve.  Focus on my voice.  Breathe.  Deep breaths, in and out.  Can you do that for me?  Can you breathe with me, Steve?”  

Hearing his name must trigger something in Steve, because his head lifts sharply.  Steve’s normally calm blue eyes are wide and panicked, and Tony absolutely hates the desperation he sees there.  He needs to make that go away.  

“I’m Tony, you’re Steve, and we’re safe in Stark Tower in New York.  No one’s after you.  It’s just you and me in a basement in Manhattan.  That’s it.”  

He can see Steve slowly coming back into himself, leaving whatever horrific place his mind had taken him to and rejoining the present.  Tony slowly lifts his hands to where Steve can see them, and after a moment’s hesitation, he places one of them on Steve’s knees.  The strongly muscled thigh feels tense under his palm, but he gently moves his hand back and forth over the muscle, all the while murmuring reassuring nonsense words.  

He really has no sense of how long it takes Steve to come down, but every added second is far too long.  After an interminably long span, Steve finally manages to choke out a word.

“Tony?”

“I’m right here,” he answers in a soft tone he doesn’t often allow himself to use within other people’s hearing, but he can’t stand hearing that broken, raspy note in Steve’s voice.  “What do you need?”  When the other man doesn’t answer, he tries a different approach.  “What happened?”

Steve still looks dazed, but he attempts a sentence.  “The ship – the water – the ship was going down, and I just…I couldn’t watch it sink.”  

He can sense there’s something big that Steve’s not telling him, but he doesn’t want to send him spiraling back into the dark.  Instead of pushing, he offers Steve what the US military and Obie never gave him – a choice.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”  Yet despite his no, Steve starts talking again after a moment’s pause.  His words seem tentative and distant, but he chokes out an explanation with what Tony can only label Steve-like persistence.  “When I was in the service, a plane I was flying crashed into the ocean.  It went down fast, and I almost didn’t make it out in time.”  

Jesus.  No wonder Steve started freaking out; _Titanic_ isn’t exactly the film for people with a justifiable fear of drowning.  He mentally makes a note to strike any and all films with water related deaths from the film queue.  Later, though.  Right now, Steve needs his undivided attention.  

“But you’re here now.  You’re safe.”

“Yes.  I’m safe, in New York.  With you.”  

“Yes,” Tony reassures one last time.  

They spend a few moments in silence before Steve starts talking again.

“Damn it, Tony, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that.”  Tony assumes the anger in Steve’s voice is indicative some pretty intense self-loathing, and that’s not going to fly.  As someone intimately familiar with the concept of self-hatred, he’s pretty good and gauging when it’s justified, and there’s no way that Steve deserves the loathing embedded within his voice.   

“You don’t have to apologize to me.  Never for that.”  Those kinds of thoughts need be nipped in the bud, before they can grow into something truly problematic.  “Besides, I’m…not a fan of the water myself.”

Steve smiles, but there’s no pleasure in the gesture.  “You don’t understand,” he insists.  “You can’t imagine what it feels like, going down.”  

He starts talking almost without thinking about it.  “Your lungs feel like they're going to burst, not only from lack of oxygen but from the sheer force of holding in the carbon dioxide.  You desperately want to take a breath, but you know that the moment you do it’s all over.  Inhaling isn't going to do you any good.  But it’s habit, instinct, so as the seconds tick on your body compels you to move and grasp for one last bit of relief before you give up the ghost, and eventually you do.  But that just makes it worse.  The water rushes into your nostrils and to the back of your throat, and that’s when your gag reflex starts to kick in, but it’s too late; you’ve already opened the floodgates, and now there’s no empty space to push the water out.  All you can do is flail and desperately hope you reach the surface before your brain cells start dying from oxygen deprivation.  Near the end, your vision starts to white out, or maybe it’s black out, but there’s no goddam pearly glow like they tell you in all the stories.  It’s just a blur, but after a while you wonder if it might not be better to embrace it than to fight it.”

Somewhere during that terrible diatribe of oversharing, Steve’s eyes snapped up to meet his.  He has the good sense not to speak, but Tony can see the questions burning in the back of his eyes.  Curiosity is only a small part of what’s there, though.  The inquiry is tangled up with sympathy and pain and horror and a couple of other things that Tony can’t allow himself to be invested in.   _Fuck it_ , he’s come this far, he might as well spit it all out.  If anyone can understand, it’s Steve.

He forces himself to start speaking, slowly excavating the memories he thought he’d entombed in rock and sand.  “You know about Afghanistan, right?  I’m assuming that was in whatever briefing packet they gave you?”  At Steve’s sharp nod, he continues.  “The guys who kidnapped me were bound and determined on getting me to make weapons to fuel their terrorist operations.  They had the raw materials, but they wanted something more advanced, something that I’d stupidly bragged about my sole ability to manufacture.  I said no, but they weren’t willing to accept that answer.”  He pauses for a moment and contemplates how to get the next part out.  

_They kept pushing me under.  No many how many times I told them to go to hell, they kept shouting at me and shoving my head into that same rusty bucket, and by the end of the third day, the water had turned pink.  My jaw kept catching on the rim of the pail, and the blood started mixing with the contents and the phlegm.  Each time I came to, it seemed a little bit darker.  And all the while I’m trying not to splash, so a random spray won’t connect with the car battery in my chest and shock me to death, though at times that sounds preferable.  Maybe if I jostle the water enough, I can get enough a range and we’ll all go up in sparks.  Water conducts, you know.  Sometimes I still feel hands fisting in my hair._

“I said yes on day five.  I couldn’t – ”

“You did nothing wrong,” Steve breaks in, drawing him out of his reverie.  For the first time since his freak out, Steve’s voice in straightforward and self-assured.  “You did what you needed to survive.  No one can fault you for that.”  

Steve’s so wrong it’s almost laughable, but Tony lets the point pass.  He shifts mentally, and tries desperately to think about Steve and the issue at hand rather than his personal nightmare fuel.  “We were talking about you, though.  Sorry, I didn’t mean to turn this into some fucked up therapy session.”  

“Don’t apologize,” Steve interrupts, mirroring his own earlier assertion.  “Never for that.”  They sit for a moment in silence, and then, for the first time since his panic attack started, Steve lips quirk upward in a brief attempt to find something salvageable in their mutually fucked up lives.  

“Don’t take this the wrong way – what happened to you is absolutely _terrible_ – but it’s nice to have someone who understands and won’t crank out useless platitudes.  If one more person thanks me for my service, I’m going to scream.”  

Tony’s smile is equally brittle, but he tries.  “Have you gotten ‘Time heals all wounds’?”  

“Trust me, I’ve had more than enough _time_ ,” Steve spits.  “It doesn’t fix things.”  

“Never really goes away does it?”  Although if you’re really lucky, something even more terrible will come along to displace the bad memories.  There’s nothing like a wormhole to crowd out terrorists.  It’s so nice to have variety in your panic attacks.  

He wonders what mental assortment Steve has to choose from.  It must be a pretty nasty bag of tricks to get him put on desk duty.  

“No,” Steve answers.  “And the worst thing is, it’s not like there’s anything to come back to.  Every therapist they make me see keeps suggesting I reconnect with people or places that feel familiar, or to take up old hobbies, but how the hell is that supposed to help?  All of the friends I had were military, and my family’s dead.  I’m not sure I even know where home is anymore.”  

 _So you're a man who has everything and nothing._ It’s a story that seems achingly familiar.

“Not to be another condescending asshole, but I feel you.  You come back from something like that, and everything seems unreal.  It’s like you’re living in an entirely different world from everyone else; it looks the same, but it operates under an entirely different set of rules that no one else can see.”  

“A different world,” Steve says softly.  “I like that.”

“Though who am I to judge?  I didn’t exactly come up with the healthiest coping mechanism.”  

“You mean – ”  Steve nods toward the display of armors along the far wall, and Tony braces himself.  They’ve never really talked about the red and gold elephants in the room, but now, if ever, is the time.  

“Iron Man?  Yup.”  How does he even begin to describe the impact the suits have had on his life?  To be honest, he’s not even sure that he fully understands the distinction.   All he knows is that his life has been bisected into two discrete eras, dating from the moment the Mark I visor slid down over his face.  How do you even vocalize something like that?  Plus, there’s the added difficulty of having to account for the suit and what it means to him while still keeping up the ruse that some third party is piloting it.  

He starts slowly, but the words begin to tumble out as he gets going.  “It started out as a means to an end.  There was a cave, I needed out of the cave, and I had a fixed amount of time to figure something out.  The thing is, the problems didn’t stop when I landed; if anything they got clearer.  Tony Stark had spent his whole life profiting off the world’s vice, but Iron Man...Iron Man could actually make a difference.  So when I got back I went into mechanic mode – upgraded the suit,  streamlined the systems, and, well, you know the rest.  I found someone foolish enough to pilot the suit, and the rest is history.”  

“You never thought about piloting it yourself?”

Tony immediately stills and works to keep his face from broadcasting his shock.  This is dangerous territory, and he absolutely cannot allow Steve to continue too far in this direction.  He doesn’t think that Steve would take the information back to Fury, but he can’t be too careful.  Damn Steve for being so perceptive, and for knowing him well enough to consider the possibility of his double life.  

“I did.”  Might as well as well stick as close to the truth as possible.  “But I figured out pretty quickly that the double life thing just wasn’t going to be an option.  I mean I’ve got an internationally based business to run, not to mention chairing the R&D department of SI New York.  Where on earth would I find the time?”   _It’s possible_ , he answers himself.   _You just have to go without sleep._ “Not to mention the fact that I’m Tony Stark.”  

Steve stares at him blankly, as if he doesn’t grasp the implications of that last statement.  “I don’t follow you.”  

“Look, I know you're sort of out of touch with the modern world, but pick up any tabloid from the last ten years or so and you’ll figure out exactly why the thought of me as some sort of superhero is laughable at best.  I don’t have the temperament.  People would never trust Tony Stark to be the one to fly into danger and make the hard choices.  The man inside that suit, he’s everything that I can never be.  He’s the guy you want next to you when the sky starts falling in, not me.  I’m just the bankroll.”  

“That’s not true.”  

“Oh, but it is.  Ask anyone on the streets of New York, and they’ll tell you.  Stark flirts with cover models and redeems his soul by paying for weaponized flying armor.  Iron Man saved Manhattan.”  

“Would you stop selling yourself short?” Steve answers tersely, and he rotates his torso so that they’re facing each other on the couch.  “A very smart man told me something once.  I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but now I think I do.  He said that the most important thing in life wasn’t for me to be a perfect soldier; the best thing I could do was be a good man.  And that’s what you are, Tony – a _good man._  Yes, everyone in this city owes an unpayable debt to whoever’s in that armor.  What he did was unspeakably brave, and it takes a certain brand of courage to fly into the dark knowing you’ll never come out.  But heroes don’t operate in a vacuum.  More often than not, they just end up getting credit for what’s essentially a group effort.  In reality, they’re only as good as the people who keep them going.  So yes, Iron Man saved the city.  But you’re the one who made him fly.”

He has absolutely no idea how to process that.  

Over the last couple of years, he’s learned to accept the waves of praise and criticism that come with being Iron Man.  Depending on the fickle will of the media, he takes the accolades as they come while trying to ignore the criticism, knowing that at the end of the day his alter ego is doing more good than harm.  No one has ever shifted any of the praise toward him.  At best, he’s a skilled mechanic whose invented another weapon.  At worst...well, the term war monger gets thrown around a lot.  

But Steve, Steve doesn’t see that.  Out of the thousands of people who’ve written, talked, or blogged about Iron Man, Steve is the only one who actually thinks about what lies behind the armor.  Maybe it’s a consequence of his spending so much time watching the nuts and bolts of the creative process or maybe it’s because he’s just generally a thoughtful person, but Steve’s the only one who’s ever given a thought to the person who creates the suit in addition to the one who flies it.  

Not that there’s actually a difference, but Steve doesn’t know that.  

He doesn’t know how this entire conversation shifted from talking care of Steve to an exploration of his inward double consciousness, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.  He can count the number of people who know his biggest secret on one hand, and none of them are exactly comfortable ruminating on the complexities of maintaining an alter ego; they’re more concerned with the danger he places himself in every time he locks into the suit.  Steve, though, it’s like he gets it.  

Apparently, he’s stayed silent a bit too long, because Steve feels the need to start speaking.  “Tony?” he asks softly, and he places his hand on Tony’s, which is still resting on Steve’s thigh.  

Oh, right, he’d never really moved it.  So this entire time, he’s not only been overloading Steve with his internal angst, but he’s been feeling up the guy’s leg too.  That’s just brilliant.  Christ, could he be any more needy?  Way to ruin things, Stark.

Or maybe not.  Because Steve is slotting his fingers into the spaces between Tony’s, and his palm squeezes tightly against the back of Tony’s hand as if it was made to lie there.  There’s something so solid about the way Steve’s hand feels on top of his, the way it rests without overweighing and shelters without constricting, and Tony’s mind immediately begins conjuring all of the things it’s worked so hard to repress over the past few months.

Steve is an amazing guy.  Not only is he some sort of cross between and Abercrombie and Fitch model and Adonis, but he’s just generally a good human being.  It was easy enough to feel physically attracted to the guy, but now that he knows Steve, holding back his feelings is just that much harder.  Because Steve is the guy who tilts his head when something confuses him.  He plays fetch with Dum-E and magically produces coffee when Tony needs a mid afternoon boost.  He sits on the couch and sketches while Tony babbles to himself about subatomic electromagnetic pulses.  Hell, Steve had convinced Tony to incorporate Elvis and the Four Seasons into his previously perfect queue of lab music!  Honestly, that right there should have tipped him off.  

So despite all of the reasons that he definitely should not be falling for Steve Rogers, Agent of Shield, his brain seems to have completely missed the memo.  Because he has.  Fallen for Steve.  And maybe, just maybe, Steve feels something too.  

Tony lightly clenches his fingers together so that they tighten around Steve’s.  The contraction draws Steve’s hand even closer to his, but Steve doesn’t pull away.  Emboldened, Tony looks over at Steve’s face, which is surprisingly close to his.  

“So,” he starts slowly, “I’m gonna need you to tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

Steve gulps, but he keeps his hand firmly on top of Tony’s, and Tony thinks maybe, just maybe, he stands a chance.  “Tony, I – ”

That’s when the alarm starts going off.  


	9. Altercations

Steve needs to punch some aliens.  He needs to punch aliens very, very badly.  

He and Tony were having a _moment_ , which had the possibility to evolve into something more, when a shrieking alarm cut through the air and utterly ruined everything.  In the course of an instant, he and Tony had shifted from doing – whatever it was they were doing – into red alert mode.  

Because according to Tony, that particular alarm was primed to go off only when a situation requiring Iron Man’s intervention arose.  Immediately, Steve had gone into Captain America mode and started scrambling for an excuse to leave, when Tony had solved the problem for him; Iron Man’s pilot needed to suit up, and he wouldn’t enter the lab if anyone else, excluding Tony, was present.  Secretly relieved, he’d immediately assured Tony that of course he understood and all but sprinted out of the lab.  

Convenient, that.  Still annoying.  

It stands to reason that the one time he’s actually enjoying being Steve, everything goes to hell in a handbasket and Captain America has to suit up.  It’s nice to be needed, he guesses, but someone really needs to talk to criminals about their timing.  If Loki has somehow made his way off Asgard, he’s done, no matter what Thor has to say about it.  

Just as he makes his way to the garage, his phone starts ringing.  He answers immediately when he sees Natasha’s contact info flash over his screen.

“What do we got?” he asks without any preliminaries. 

“Supernatural being,” Natasha answers crisply.  “We’ve got calls coming in saying that someone in Central Park is bringing the sculptures to life.”  It takes Steve a second to process that.  “Bringing sculptures to life?  Why?  What do they want?”

“I don’t know,” Nat shoots back.  “But it’s freaking people out.  Our operatives can’t figure out how to stop these things, and we really don’t want whoever’s doing this getting to the war memorials.”  

Steve winces as he thinks to the plethora of statues dotting the park.  If memory serves, there’s a statue of the 107th Infantry near the south end of the park.  The soldiers have bayonets.  

“I’m on my way.”

“We’re at the southeast end of the park.  Look for an unmarked black delivery van with tinted windows.  I’ve got the suit and shield.”  

Not bothering to say goodbye, Steve hangs up and starts speeding north.  If he’s lucky it shouldn’t take him more that five minutes to make it to Central Park; he can probably make it in three if he presses.  

It’s immediately apparent when he hits 58th that something is wrong.  If the relentless flash of red and blue police lights didn’t make it clear enough, the parade of taxis zooming in the opposite direction makes the chaos waiting ahead self-evident.  Even the horse draw carriages that traditionally haunt the park are fleeing in the other way, the horses wide-eyed in fear.  He weaves through the onslaught of incoming traffic and speeds onward.  

He catches Natasha and Clint standing near the promised van with a few other agents he doesn’t recognize.  Drawing the bike to a quick stop, he hops off, jumps into the empty van, and quickly starts changing into the uniform.  

“What have we got?” he asks Natasha through the slightly cracked door.  

“As far as we can tell, there’s only one hostile we need to worry about.  We can’t be certain, but there’s someone who looks like a woman near on the edge of the Conservatory Water.  She’s not attacking anyone at the moment, but it appears as though she’s causing the statues to move.”  

Steve pulls the cowl over his head and steps out in full uniform.  “When you say move, what exactly do you mean?”

“She’s bringing the statues to life.  The first calls that came in reported that the Central Park Pilgrim was marching around the conservatory.”  

He was afraid of that.  “Any news about what she wants?”  

“Nothing.  Negotiators are trying to talk to her, but so far she’s not making any demands.  She just seems to be...exploring.”  

“So what, we have space tourists now?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.”  

Steve resists the urge to run his palm over his face and instead settles for an incredulous look with Natasha.  When did this become his life?  Nat tilts her head in a brief display of sympathy before continuing.  

“They wanted us on sight to monitor the situation in case things went south.  There’s no way to tell if this one’s from Asgard, but we’re the only ones with any sort of experience fighting extraterrestrials.”  

“Right, because that went over so well last time.”

“We survived.”

Steve sighs, and begins to strategize.  “Okay, our main objective is containment.  Things are nonviolent at the moment, and let’s aim to keep it that way, but just in case have the police form a line of blast shields along 5th Avenue between 72nd and 79th.  Tell them to be as inconspicuous as possible and to refrain from using weapons, but get them ready in case things turn sour.  We should go in from the south and the east to keep her from getting any further into the park.  Hawkeye, I want you up high, while Widow and I go in from the ground.  Tony was calling Iron Man as I left the Tower, so hopefully we’ll have eyes in the sky sometime soon.”  

At least he hopes it’s soon.  How far away could the armor’s pilot live anyway?  It couldn’t be too far, or he wouldn’t be available to come when Tony needed him, right?  

“It’s a bit too late for that.”

Clint’s voice resonates from somewhere high, and Steve looks up.  The archer is perched on top of the lavish gold sculpture of General Sherman, but his eyes are focused on something far in the distance.  

“She just woke up Alice.”  

* * *

 With no time to spare, their lonely little team of three speed quickly toward the alien’s last known location, which, according to Clint, is the Alice in Wonderland at the head of the Conservatory Water.  The same statute which is now, apparently, alive.  

Conceptually, Steve had known what he was getting into, but his mental projections don’t nearly do the scene justice.  To start, the Alice in Wonderland statue isn’t just a sweet little depiction of a young girl.  Nope, this thing is an eleven foot fall, larger than life cast of not only Alice, but the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, and a bevy of other fictitious creatures.  All of whom are moving.  The best he can tell, the giant bronze Alice is gently stroking a...mouse?  Weasel?  It’s been awhile since he’s read the book.  Whatever it is, it’s three feet long and terrifying.  

He’s so distracted by the animated bronze rabbit that it takes him a minute to notice the woman hovering two feet above one of the mushrooms.  It says something about the state of his day that the levitating woman barely phases him.  

If she wasn’t floating in midair and staring at an animated sculpture she would have had a hard time pinpointing her as an alien.  With her flowing white dress and loose blonde hair, she looks a bit like the pictures of the “Flower Children” that Tony had shown him.  He just hopes she’s on board with the whole “Peace and Love” message.

He can barely make out the SWAT team hovering near the borders of the park, but he knows they’ve been ordered to stand down unless things turn violent.  Quietly, he starts speaking under his breath knowing the team’s in-ear com links will pick it up.  

“Okay, I’m going in.  Let’s keep this calm, and hopefully we’ll get out of here without things escalating.  Widow, you copy?”

“I copy?”

“Hawkeye?”

“Up high.”

Holding his shield protectively in front of his chest, he steps out of the treeline and into the pathway.  Advancing slowly, he makes sure that he’s clearly within the hovering figure’s eyeline, but, surprisingly, she doesn’t turn.  He’s just about to make the first overture when she beats him to it.  

“Amazing, isn’t it?”  Her voice sound light and detached, and her eyes never leave the bronze Alice.  Steve keeps moving with caution.

“The statutes?”

“Yes.  They’re wonderful.”  A dazzling smile crosses her face, and she finally turns to look at Steve.  “It’s a shame you don’t talk to them more often.”

“Well, they don’t exactly speak back to us.”  Steve hopes that’s the right answer; he really doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to be doing.  He gulps and starts again.  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No,” the woman answers back.  “But I heard about your planet, and I had to come and see.  It’s as beautiful as I imagined it would be.”  

Her statement immediately puts Steve on his guard.  Things have been relatively quiet on the intergalactic front since the Chitauri invasion, but this woman is making it sound as if Earth is acquiring a sudden reputation among alien spheres, and that thought scares the hell out of him.  Sure, this woman seems alright, but he’s still pretty hesitant about anything with otherworldly origins after his experiences with the Tesseract.  

“Thank you.  We think it’s beautiful as well.”  Still determined to proceed delicately, he continues speaking in a calm, rational tone.  “Ma’am, could you please stop making the statues move?  They don’t usually do that, and it’s making certain people very uncomfortable.”  

The woman frowns.  “But they want to move!  Can’t you feel it?”

“No ma’am, I can’t.  They’re just pieces of art.  They’re beautiful, but they’re not...alive.”  

The woman stands up, although she’s still hovering in mid air.  Steve has to crank his neck upwards to see her, and the height difference makes him very uncomfortable.  “No!” she insists, her voice rising.  “They are!  How do you not understand that?”

He gets the feeling that negotiations are swiftly coming to a close.  “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop whatever it is that you're doing and come with me.”  

“No.”  The brevity of the reply is disturbing.  

“Miss, I - ”

“Steve, on your four!”

He has just enough time to turn and raise his shield before the bullet makes contact.  The ricochet of the bullet off of the vibranium feels eerily familiar, and he immediately bends his knees into a combat position.  Judging from the strength of the impact, the shooter is relatively close, but not so close that he’s in danger of immediate physical assault.  Risking a brief glance over the edge of the shield, he immediately sees the problem.  Across the water thirty yards away, the Central Park Pilgrim stands with his flintlock raised, the bronze barrel still smoking from a recently fired bullet.  

Later, Steve will stop to question the logistics of an animated bronze statue firing working bullets, but right now he’s more concerned with the fact that a centuries old statue is reaching into his ammunition pouch and attempting to reload.  Thankfully, that make and model of musket takes anywhere between thirty and forty-five seconds to reload, so Steve risks a brief glance back and the woman who’s animating the sculptures.  

“Stop this!  I don’t want to hurt you, but you can’t go around bringing statues to life or letting them attack people.”  

The woman laughs, and just from the tone, he can tell that things are about to get ugly.  

“As if you could hurt me.”  The woman raises her hands to her chest and then throws her arms outward, her fingers spreading wide as arms fully extend.  A wave of light explodes from her fingertips, creating an expanding halo in a circle around her, and Steve braces as he waits for the impact to hit him.  

Miraculously, the light passes through him with no discernable effect.  There’s a slight tingling sensation, sort of like the feeling he gets when his foot falls asleep, but other than that, he feels fine.  Nonetheless, he gets the impression that something bad’s about to go down.  

His feelings are confirmed when Clint’s voice rings out over the com line.  

“Holy shit!”

“Hawkeye, what’s your status?”  He waits desperately for the reply but remains focused on the alien enchantress and the pilgrim.  

Clint’s reply is breathless but strong.  “I did not join an elite paramilitary organization to fight Balto!”  

What on Earth?  

Natasha’s contribution quickly sets him straight.  “Whatever the hell that was just brought the rest of the statues to life, and they’re not friendly!”

Shit.  Looks like negotiations are over.  He glances quickly to his left, where the Central Park Pilgrim is ramming a tamping rod down the barrel of his musket.  He figures he’s got about fifteen seconds before the statue can get off another shot, so decides to deal with the source of the problem first.  

Unhooking his arm from the straps of his shield, he rotates the shield so that it’s parallel to the ground and curls his body inward,  If she’s anything like Loki, this won’t kill the enchantress, but it should be more than enough to stop her temporarily.  Putting all of his strength into his right arm, he tosses the shield like a discus in a direct line toward the levitating woman.  

His aim is accurate, and the shield proceeds straight toward her, which is why it’s so shocking when the projectile travels straight through the enchantress’ form and onward into the northern reaches of the park.  

“Nice try, Captain, but I’m a lot harder to get rid of than that.”  

Inwardly, Steve winces at the implications of that failed shield toss, but he knows he can’t afford to get distracted.  He’s got six...five...four…

With a few seconds remaining, he does an about face and sprints across the clearing to the pilgrim, who’s now bracing his musket against a dull bronze shoulder.  He’s still unsure of the physics of enlivened bronze statuary, but he’s pretty sure a soldier can’t fire without a gun.  He reaches the pilgrim just in time to grab the barrel of the gun and aim the shot skyward.  Wrapping his palm around the barrel, he draws the gun up and over his head, which has the added benefit of dragging the pilgrim along and tossing him to the ground.  The bronze man is surprisingly heavy, and it taxes even his strength to pry the gun out of the statue’s hand.  Once he dislodges the musket, he flips the weapon and slams the stock into the soldier’s face.  It shatters on impact.  

As soon as the bronze breaks apart to reveal the hollow inner shell, the figure stops moving, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief.  They can be stopped.  

“They die if you break the casing,” he shouts, hoping Nat and Clint can hear him through the com link.  

“Easy for you to say,” Clint answers.  “Not all of us have super strength!”

“They don’t like electricity, either,” says Natasha.  “It makes them seize up for a couple of seconds.”  

Steve has a moment of panic when the thinks of Natasha taking on giant bronze statuary with her tiny widow bites, but he can’t allow himself to get distracted.  He needs to retrieve his shield, reconnect with his troops, and find some way to stop the crazy space enchantress.  

When a shadow moves overhead, he immediately sinks into a crouch, thinking that one of the many winged statues is priming for an attack.  It’s only when he hears a familiar filtered voice overhead that he straightens.

“Lose something, Cap?”  

“Iron Man!” Steve exclaims happily and looks upward.  The figure flying above him isn’t an artificially animated bronze statuette, but a much flashier red and gold model who is, amazingly, carrying his shield.  “Boy am I glad to see you!”  

Iron Man drops low so that he’s hovering only a foot or so above the ground, but he doesn’t move or speak again.  Slightly concerned, Steve taps his earpiece.

“Can you hear me?”  The other man had been able to hack into the channel in Stuttgart.  

It takes several precious seconds for Iron Man to reply, and the response comes out with very little inflection.  “I hear you.”  He extends his arm, and the familiar weight of the shield drops into Steve’s hands.  “The Group of Bears has broken through the barricade on 79th,” Iron Man intones.  “They’re headed this way.”

“Hawkeye and Widow are down toward the south end of the park.  Can you back them up?  You have to crack these things open to get them to stop, and neither of them has the equipment to do it.”

“I’m on it.”  Iron Man takes to the sky, and Steve turns northward, waiting for the onslaught of...bears.  Christ.

Whatever he was envisioning, the reality is distinctly worse.  The sculptures weren’t fashioned in the most realistic style, but they’re _bears_ , and they’re easily nine feet tall on all fours.  And there are three of them.  Gripping his shield a bit tighter, he contemplates the best ways to apply vibranium to bronze.

The next few minutes are blurs of red, white, blue, and bronze, as he desperately tries to find a way to best subdue three large, metal assailants that are equipped with unnatural strength and foot-long claws.  It takes him far too long to incapacitate all three figures, but he eventually picks his way out of the bronzed bear carcases and starts working back to the team.  

When all of this is over, he’s going to write a nice, long note to the City of New York, pushing floral arrangements over metal decor.  

He arrives to utter chaos.  The fight has shifted to Bethesda Terrace, and the remaining Avengers are battling a near comic array of authors, war heroes, animals, and political figures.  Apart from a few cuts and bruises, his team seems alright, but they’re fighting a strictly defensive battle.  Clint and Natasha seem to be primarily working as decoys, dodging and weaving around oncoming assailants until Iron Man can turn his repulsor blasts on them.  Still, with only one member of the team able to mount an effective offense, the odds are heavily stacked against them.  Let’s see if he can even the score.  

He arrives at the little group just in time to keep a ten-foot granite statue in knee britches from backhanding Clint.  Using his shield as a club, he drives the edge into the sculpture’s neck, and the head breaks off with an almost comic crack.  

Clint spins.  “You couldn’t have done that earlier?”

“I was a bit preoccupied.”  

“Less talking, more fighting!”  Natasha calls, shocking some guy in Elizabethan clothing so Iron Man can blast him.  Which gives him an idea…

“Everyone fall back!” he cries, waving his arms so everyone will gather behind him.  He raises his shield and nods toward Iron Man.  

“Bounce a repulsor blast off the shield.”  Even though it’s been months since they’ve done this, the man in the suit immediately catches on, raises his hand, and aims a steady beam at the metal disc.  

Steve’s not the most scientifically minded guy, but he’s got enough instincts to angle the shield so that the oncoming statue-zombies fall in the path of the reflected repulsor beam.  After a few successful hits, he and Iron Man work out an unspoken system, in which Iron Man will send out short bursts of energy as Steve redirects the shield.  

After successfully finishing off Daniel Webster and Mother Goose, Steve allows himself a breath and takes a look around the courtyard.  The plaza is blissfully clear of advancing statuary, both historic and fictitious.  

Natasha runs the back of her hand over her dampened forehead and scans the perimeter for more adversaries.  “Now what?”

There’s absolutely no way they’ve shattered every statue in the park, and there’s still the central problem of the enchantress herself.  What if she makes her way toward Wall Street or the New York Public Library?  Steve has no desire to either fight a bull or giant stone lions, thank you very much.  

Of course, there was no way they were going to be allowed to rest for more than a minute.  Just as Steve begins to get his breathing under control, he catches sight of the enchantress at the top of the terrace stairs.  Her eyes scan the plaza, lingering over the piles of rubble before turning with fury to the Avengers.  

“How dare you?!”  The tension in her neck and arms brings her veins into stark relief, and she raises her hands as if ready to issue another blast.  

Steve braces himself, but when it comes the flash of light originates from behind, not in front of him.  When the flash is immediately succeeded by a deafening crack of thunder, he can’t help the smile that breaks over his face.  

Sure enough, when he turns around, Thor is standing there in all of his red caped glory.  Hammer in hand, he advances toward the steps, and Steve allows himself to hope.

“Vitaelia!”  Thor’s deep echoes across the plaza, and the levitating woman recoils in fear.  

Never ceasing his movement, the god of thunder hoists his hammer above his shoulder and throws, as if he were throwing out the first pitch at a baseball game instead of an awe-inspiring weapon from another world.  

Steve fears that the hammer will suffer the same fate as his shield, but Mjolnir apparently has advanced supernatural characteristics.  When the hammer reaches the enchantress, she recoils from the impact and falls from the air.  Steve expects her to crumple on the ground, but she’s got one last surprise up her sleeve.  Instead of collapsing on solid earth, she disappears, leaving only rubble and dust as her legacy.  

He’s still in a minor state of shock when Thor makes his way over after having reclaimed Mjolnir.  

“Greetings, friends.”

Surprisingly, it’s Iron Man who answers.  “Thor,” he says, with a nod of his helmeted head.  “Nice of you to show up.”  

“Please pardon my absence,” Thor intones.  “The energy to transverse between the realms is not inconsequential, and it took time to summon the requisite energy.”  

“Well,” Steve answers while crossing to the other man, “we’re glad you came.”  He extends his arm for a handshake, but Thor grasps his forearm in what Steve can only assume is some sort of Asgardian greeting.  He’ll take it.  He gestures toward the now vacant stairs.

“She a friend of yours?”

“Hardly," Thor scoffs.  "Vitaelia is a minor Alfheim with the ability to temporarily animate graven images.  I fear she found the lure of your most excellent gardens too strong to resist.”

“Is she dead?” Natasha cuts in, eager to hear the most pressing news.  

Thor shakes his head.  “Banished.  But you need not fret.  Given the energy she expended here today, she will require at least ten of your years to recover.”  

“What was she even doing here?” Clint asks, his voice devoid of its usual humor.  Considering his previous experience with extraterrestrial entities, Steve can’t fault his frustration.  

“It is as I said when last we spoke.  The reemergence of the Tesseract has symboled that this planet is ready for a higher form of war.  News of our victory has spread throughout the galaxy, and I fear Vitaelia will not be the only adversary who seeks to explore this new realm.”

Something inside of Steve twists at Thor’s words.  While it’s somewhat comforting to know that they won’t be facing off against their latest adversary and her animated statuary anytime soon, Thor’s justification of her presence is deeply disturbing.  The galaxy knows about earth and, apparently, thinks it’s a suitable planet to visit.  More than that, the woman they’ve just fought, who or whatever she is, can be evaluated in terms of decades.  Despite the Avengers’ recent victory, he can’t help but feel that they are only specs of sand bracing themselves against the fury of a tide they can’t hope to halt.  

“They can stick to their own planets,” Iron Man says.  “This one’s off limits.”  

“It is not that simple,” Thor replies, though his tone is apologetic.  

Natasha cuts in.  “We should get back to SHIELD.  They’ll want to know what’s going on.”  

“I’ll leave you to it,” Iron Man answers.  “I’m only here on retainer.”  The brief whirl of the repulsors is all the warning they get before Iron Man jets into the sky, a streak of crimson against blue.  Though Steve wishes he had stuck around longer, he can understand the armored man’s plight; he’d nearly died to stop the world from an alien invasion, yet only a few months later he’s being forced to defend it from the exact same thing.  Steve can sympathize; the comparison doesn’t inspire leniency.  

Fortunately, Thor seems like he is sticking around.  “I shall accompany you to your base camp.  If my brother’s actions have brought strife upon your realm, the least I can do is provide your leaders with the knowledge they require.”

Clint looks upward, scanning the sky.  “We should probably get out of here before the press starts showing up.  I’m not in the mood for reporters.”  

“Let’s go.”  They all start to make their way out of the park, stumbling past the bronze, marble, and granite remains, scattered throughout the park.  Just as they’re about to leave, Clint nudges a marble head with his foot, which Steve recognizes as the statue he beheaded with his shield.  

“Congratulations, Cap,” Clint jokes, “you decapitated a Founding Father.  That’s gotta be, like, a minus fifty in Patriot Points.”

Steve takes a long look and the broken head and realizes that the head is the same face he sees on the ten dollar bill.  Fantastic.  He’s symbolically guillotined Alexander Hamilton.  On a normal day that might bother him, but his threshold for discomfort is pretty high at the moment.   

He smirks at Clint.  “Well, I used to punch Hitler on a regular basis, so I think I’m still in the green.”  

Thor reaches out and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Do not fret, Captain.  Given your heroic actions today, I’m sure your valor will be noted in your kingdom’s annals of patriotism.”  

“Umm, thanks Thor.”  After all, he’s not exactly in the position to critique someone for their questionable grasp of sarcasm.  He appreciates the sentiment.  

He allows himself a brief look southward into Manhattan.  Iron Man’s probably already made his way back to the tower by now and is most likely filling Tony in on everything that’s happened.  He suppresses a brief pang of jealousy, and marches onward to do his job.  

* * *

 Steve is Captain America.

_Holy fucking shit, Steve is Captain America!_

When he’d first hacked into the comlinks, he’d thought the voice coming over the line had just sounded like Steve; understandable, since he was probably about two seconds away from kissing the guy before that stupid alarm had ruined everything.  But then he’d got to the park, seen the man on the ground, and he’d known.  He’d just known.  

He’d spent far too much time staring at that jawline to not recognize it, not to mention the fact that it’s Steve.  He knows how Steve moves.  He knows how he sounds.  He know how he thinks...or at least he thought he did.  

In the small portion of his head that’s not spinning in circles, it makes sense.  No one on earth has muscles that pronounced naturally.  Nope, those things are bonafide wonder of scientific engineering.  But it’s deeper than that.  The more he things about events of the last month or so, everything starts to fall into place, like the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving.  The broken window.  Not knowing how to use a laptop.  The lack of cultural familiarity.  Christ, he’s an idiot for not solving this sooner.  No one’s can possibly live in New York and be that naive, technophobia be damned.  

Fuck, was it all a lie?  What the hell was SHIELD trying to prove, sending Captain America in as the SI liaison?  Fury, the damn son of a bitch, knows full and well that he’s Iron Man.  So does Romanoff, come to think of it.  Has Steve just been laughing at him this whole time and playing the clueless idiot just to get into his good graces?  And if so, why?  He hasn’t touched the Helicarrier plans in over a month, so it’s not as if Steve’s helping to promote SHIELD’s cause.  They haven’t even discussed SHIELD in weeks, in between the pizza and the music and the quasi-flirtatious back and forth.  What the hell was Steve even doing?!

It’s not like he hasn’t had people try to cozy up to him before, but this time it’s personal.  Steve came into his home; no, Steve came into his lab.  He played with Dum-E and he claimed a spot on the couch and he made himself an essential part of his existence under false pretenses.  If Steve did all that for one of Fury’s screwed up power plays, well then fuck him, fuck him very much.  

Yet despite how furious and confused and angry and betrayed he feels right now, there’s a part of him that can’t believe it was all a lie.  Looking back, Steve’s cover story is woefully thin.  If he really had dark, nefarious purposes, he wouldn’t have been so blatantly...well, transparent.   It was only a matter of time before he figured this whole thing out.  Frankly, he’s shooting himself in the foot for not recognizing it sooner.  Like, there’s no way Steve could have expected Iron Man wouldn’t connect the dots.  There are only so many tall, muscular, culturally inept blonde men running around New York.  Plus, Steve was far too happy to see Iron Man in the park.  If he’d been secretly trying to worm his way into Iron Man’s good graces by cuddling up to his human alter ego, Steve would have been a lot more stressed out.  

So...Steve doesn’t know he’s Iron Man.  

That still leaves a lot of questions that he doesn’t know how to answer.  

He’s still running over the implications of his epiphany when his phone vibrates.  To his infinite surprise, his lock screen reads _One new message from Steve Rogers._  

Huh.  

He debates the merits of reading it, but the temptation proves too strong to resist.  After all, he can’t properly assess the information if he doesn’t have all the facts.  He swipes right and reads.

***Did Iron Man make it back okay?***

Wow.  That’s…bold.  For lack of a better option, he decides to keep the response short.

***Yes.***

Steve texts back almost immediately.

***Good.  We’re almost finished here.***

***We?***

***SHIELD.  Most of the local agents are on site responding to the alert.***

Okaaaay.  Technically that’s true, but Steve was sure as hell doing a whole lot more than ‘responding.’  The man is pushing it with the evasions.  He’s about to reply when the phone buzzes again.  

***Is he alright?***

***Who?***

***Iron Man.  The Avengers took some pretty hard hits.***

***So I’m told.***

Oh, as you were told.  Yup, Steve sucks at this whole double agent thing.  The man’s actions are ridiculously transparent now that Tony has the one fact that clarifies everything else.  

How to answer the question, though?  No, Iron Man is not alright.  Iron Man is in the middle of a crisis and currently doubting the basis of his existence.  Iron Man is hella confused and really needs you to come clean about your secret double life.  

On second thought, that last one’s a bit hypocritical.  

***He’s fine.***

***Good.  Tell him I said thank you.***

***Thank you both.***

***I will.***

Tony hesitates for a second, but he can’t stop himself from asking.  

* **Are you alright?***

***You know, being a SHIELD agent, and all?***

Two can play this game.  

***I’m good.***

***The statues near the border of the park did a bit of damage to the agents on the perimeter, but they’re fine.***

***Are you sure?***

***Iron Man said those things hit pretty hard.***

***A couple of cuts and bruises.  But no fatalities.***

***Anyone involved should stay under observation for the next 24 hours.***

***Concussions can be serious.***

***Tony, we’re fine.***

***You can’t know that.***

Steve took far too many blows to the head for Tony’s piece of mind.  The man may be Captain America - damn, that’s weird - but he’s not invulnerable.  Probably.

***Is that an offer?***

***Is what an offer?***

***To stay under observation.***

Oh.   _Oh_.  Well isn’t that all sorts of problematic?  

As far as Steve knows, the last time Tony Stark and Steve Rogers spoke, they were having a moment, or at least what would have been a moment if the alien could have waited five fucking minutes.  Even though Tony’s been on a mental rollercoaster over the past few hours, Steve doesn’t know that.  

Just say no, he tells himself.  Spare yourself the misery and just say no.

He doesn’t say no.  

***It could be.***

***I’d like it to be.***

***If you don’t mind.***

***I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose.***

***It’s fine.***

***Come over when SHIELD cuts you lose.***

**~~*Because I am a masochist and have no concern for my own well-being.*~~ **

***Okay.  See you soon!***

Tony mentally calls himself every name in the book and questions his not inconsiderable intelligence.  He’s just resigned himself to spending the next 24 hours with Steve.  Who is Captain America.  But Steve doesn’t know that Tony knows he’s Captain America.  Or know that Tony is Iron Man. Yeeaaaah.  

They’re basically just going to sit there and pretend that neither of them fought an intergalactic space witch in Central Park.  And maybe talk about their almost kiss. Why does he even do this to himself?

Steve's voice resonates in the back of his head, a whisper that nevertheless cuts through the tempest in his mind.   _But you’re the one who made him fly._  

Yeah, that’s why.  


	10. Carpe Diem

It’s nearly seven o’clock by the time Steve makes it back to Stark Tower.  As team leader, it’s his responsibility to brief the SHIELD, the press, the National Defense Council, and every other concerned party that wants to know each and every detail of the latest alien invasion.  He understands – it hasn’t been all that long since the Chitauri – but he’s told the exact same story what seems like a hundred times.  There’s only so many times he can regurgitate the exact same details over and over, and all he wants to do is go home and go to sleep.  

Funny thing is, “home” isn’t his crappy SHIELD apartment.  Despite the crapshoot of a day he’s just had and surviving his second alien invasion, all he wants to do is make his way to a basement in Manhattan and listen to the clicks and whirls of technical gadgetry.  The person responsible for making those clicks and whirls also holds a certain level of appeal.  

He’s probably placing an unfair burden on Tony by asking to stay over.  He knows perfectly well that he doesn’t have a concussion, and the few scratches he ascertained during the fight have already scabbed over.  Nonetheless, he’s still perfectly willing to to take advantage of Tony’s concern for his medical well-being if it allows him to spend extended time in his company.  He’s not sure exactly where they stand at the moment, but he’s not willing to let whatever they’ve got going slide by.  Apparently, aliens can invade at any moment, so from now on he’s going to seize whatever happiness he has with both hands and grip it with every ounce of serum infused strength that he has.  Life’s too short.  

He swings by that ratty little taco stand that they both like and grabs an obscenely large amount of food.  The smell of grease and cheese wafts through the service elevator as the metal doors shut behind him.  

“Down please, JARVIS,” he says aloud as he waits for the elevator to descend.  When he’s met with silence and stillness, he can’t help but glance upward.  “JARVIS, you there?”  

He’s starting to get worried when JARVIS’ voice finally rings out from speakers in the ceiling.  “I’m here.”  

“Is everything alright?”  Usually, the artificial voice radiates with a crisp, quasi-human personality, but JARVIS is...off somehow.

“Everything is satisfactory.  I will initiate your descent.”

“Is Tony okay?”  JARVIS is still a bit too disconcerted for Steve’s peace of mind, and he wonders what exactly it would take to unnerve Tony’s AI.  “Is it Iron Man?  Did he make it back safely.”

“Both Mr. Stark and Iron Man are both physically sound.”  

“And it’s okay for me to go down?  Iron Man’s gone, right?”  

After an almost indiscernible pause, JARVIS answers.  “Mr. Stark is the only person currently in the lab.”  

“Then down please, JARVIS.”

* * *

Steve can feel himself unwinding as he descends that last flight of stairs.  It’s been a long, exceedingly stressful day, and all he really wants to do is walk in, plop down on the couch, eat his tacos, and listen to Tony babble about things he only partially understands.

JARVIS has got the doors open by the time he steps off the last step, and he immediately starts looking around.  It only takes a moment to locate the inventor; processing what he sees is a whole nother story.  

The thing is, Tony very rarely goes into hardware mode.  Sure, when he needs something built, he most likely will end up doing it himself, but the hardware phase is pretty much always preceded by days’ worth of calculation and digital simulations.  The man spends much more time manipulating holographs than working with physical materials.  On the rare occasions that he does break out the power tools, Steve knows he’s in for a treat.  Tony approaches any sort of mechanically based activity with a startling intensity, his usual manic energy transformed into meticulous concentration.  The hands that gesture so wildly when Tony speaks become finely calibrated instruments of creation as the inventor painstakingly navigates his way between one delicate wire and the next.  At times like those, Tony’s energy is magnetic and no less powerful for being contained.  

This is not one of those times.

Apparently, Steve has been missing the most engaging parts of Tony’s creative process.  The miniaturized arc reactor or whatever it is Tony has been working on is a small, delicate project that requires the finest of tools and the most exact movements.  That’s all well and good.  But all of that time watching Tony do precision work means he’s missed out on Tony in full on blacksmith mode, which...damn.  

Steve can’t tell exactly what’s going on – he rarely can when it comes to Tony – but he doesn’t need to know the details to appreciate the sight.  There’s a long piece of metal, there’s a belt grinder, and there are sparks.  Tony is presumably doing something very constructive and very important my applying said metal to said belt grinder, but for the life of him, Steve can’t figure out what that is.  He’s far too concerned with the way the sparks from the worked metal are creating a soft orange glow around the inventor, the chiaroscuro casting his muscular profile into stark relief.

His evening just got a lot less relaxing.  

It’s lucky for him that Tony’s back is turned, because Steve’s pretty sure he spent a good minute standing in the doorway with his mouth open and clutching a greasy sack full of tacos, which is probably not the best way to start the evening.  He gives himself a minute to appreciate the sight in front of him before he steps fully into the room.  Whatever flame-inducing project Tony is working on is probably stopped him from hearing the doors, so Steve waits until Tony’s between strokes to speak up.  

“Hey.”  He smiles at the other man and holds up the paper bag.  “I brought sustenance.”  

Tony turns, but the movement’s not as quick as Steve’s expecting.  

“Hey,” he answers with a fairly cursory glance before turning back to his work.  

_What?_

Steve takes a moment to assess the situation, not sure what it is that’s got Tony flustered.  The lab is fairly dark; the usual screens aren’t pulled up to give off their typical glow.  The only light is coming from the narrow quadrant of the room over Tony’s workspace and the occasional sparks from whatever Tony’s working on.  He can just make out a faint outline of something on the table, but it’s nearly impossible to make out anything in the low light.  

At least, it is until Tony starts working again.  The brief flare of light gives off just enough light that Steve catches brief flashes of gold crimson on the work table.

It’s the Iron Man armor.  Tony’s working on the Iron Man armor.  

Steve’s brain scrambles to connect the two ideas:  Tony’s upset and the armor’s damaged.  Is Iron Man okay?  He seemed fine as he flew away, but it’s really hard to tell under all of that metal plating.  He waits for Tony to come to another stopping point before he speaks out, trying to jab out his question in the brief moment of stillness.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony answers back, “just a bit of external damage that I need to fix.  Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

“And it’s just the suit?”

“What?”

“It’s just the suit?” he reiterates.  “The guy in the armor’s okay?”

Tony pauses, and his mouth draws into a hard line.  “He’s...fine, Steve.  Everything is just great.”  The tone of his voice suggests otherwise, though.  

“Are you sure?  You seem a bit...off.”  Steve tries to keep his voice nonjudgmental, afraid that he’s overstepped his bounds.  

Steve can see the tenseness in Tony’s shoulders, and he’s slightly taken aback by the harshness in his answer.  “No, I’m not okay.”  Tony doesn’t stop working, but at least he’s talking.  “In case you haven’t noticed, an alien invaded New York today.  Again.  For the second time in a year.  Even better, she apparently did it just because she could.  No rhyme, no reason– just straight up boredom.  How is that alright?!”  Tony’s voice rises as he finishes his sentence, his voice at last reflecting the tension that Steve’s seen in his shoulders all this time.  

“It’s not,” he answers.  “None of this is okay.  And it’s all right to be scared – ”

“I’m not scared,” Tony cuts in.  “I’m pissed.”  

Steve’s eyes travel from Tony’s face back to the belt grinder.  The occasional shower of sparks is fairly indicative of Tony’s state of mind.  “Yes, I can see that.”  He takes one step closer.  “What can I do?”

Tony finally steps away from the power grinder and places the metal plate to the side.  It takes him a moment to turn back and face Steve, but he takes his glasses off his face as he pivots.  His eyes seem to be searching for...something, but for the life of him Steve can’t figure out what that something is.  

Whether he finds what he needs or not, Steve will never know.  The other man starts speaking a moment later.  “Nothing,” Tony answers.  

“What _should_ I do?”

Tony’s hands jerk, and when he speaks, his voice comes out in a sharp burst.  “What do I know?  Do whatever the hell you want, Steve!”  Startled, Steve rears back, wondering what exactly he’s done to get Tony so upset.  He holds himself still, afraid that anything he does could somehow make this worse.  

Tony’s hands come up and clench in his hair, fingers grasping tight against the already messy strands.  He lets out a harsh sigh, and then turns to face Steve.  “Sorry, that was...that was out of line.  It’s just been a rough day.”

“I get it.”  That seems safe enough, right?  

Tony’s shoulders drop, and his hands come down to his side.  “I know you do,” he answers, his voice barely audible in the expanse of the lab.  After a moment of painfully tense silence, Tony gestures to the bag that Steve’s been clutching all this time.  “Is that food?”

“Yeah.”  Steve spreads their order out on the steel table in front of them, ushering three street tacos toward Tony and reserving at least six for himself.  Any other day, he’d expect Tony to snap out some comment about his eating habits.  

_What sort of Devil’s bargain did you make in exchange for that metabolism?  Just wait, you hit thirty and you’re going to get so fat.  Or bald.  You’re so going to go bald.  Karma’s a bitch, Steve.  You cannot consume that much saturated fat and hope to avoid the consequences._

Nothing comes.  The room is unusually quiet except for the crinkle of the paper wrapping.  Steve grabs one of his own tacos and bites into it, desperately hoping that eating will somehow make the awkward silence less awkward.  What on earth could Iron Man have possibly said to make Tony this uneasy?  

Steve’s trying desperately to think of something to say when Tony beats him to it.  “What about you?  Did your...team make it back okay?”  There’s a slight hesitation in the other man’s voice, as if he’s somewhat tentative about asking the question.  

Right, because he’s a SHIELD agent.  Okay, he can do this.  It’s perfectly natural to be concerned about his work colleagues, right?  Besides, he’s already admitted that he was at the park.  He just neglected to mention that he was there in red and blue spandex.  

“Everyone’s fine for the most part.  A couple of the agents who were on the perimeter are going to have some pretty nasty bruises, but there weren’t any fatalities.”

“That’s good.”

They eat in silence for another moment until Steve feels compelled to speak up.  

“For what it’s worth, the Avengers did great.”

Tony turns.  “Really?”

“Yeah.”

The inventor raises an eyebrow.  “I was sort of under the impression that they were getting their asses handed to them.”

Steve bristles at that; that’s _his_ team after all, even if Tony doesn’t know it.  He is glad that the habitual sarcasm is back in Tony’s voice, though.”  “They did fine.  At least, they were able to hold things off until..."

“Until _Thor ex machina?_ ” Tony smirks, and the smile on his face is the first hint of humor Steve’s seen since he first stepped into the lab.  

“More like _tonabit deus ex machina._ ”  Seeing Tony’s cocked eyebrow, he translates.  “Thunder God in the machine.”

“You speak Latin?”

“Alter boy,” Steve explains.  

Tony snorts.  “Of course you were.”  

“What I’m trying to say is, everyone survived.  No one got hurt, aside from a couple of statues, and apparently that alien won’t have the strength to come back to earth for a really long time.  It’s crazy and stupid and flat out insane that an alien sorceress decided to crash land on Earth, but the incident was relatively minor.  At least it’s not another Chitauri situation.”

“Here’s to that.” Tony inclines his head in acknowledgment.  “Sorry I’m not the best company right now.  I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“That’s understandable.”

“The thing is,” Tony starts slowly, “when something like this happens, you can’t help but stop and reevaluate everything.  Everything you think you know gets thrown up into the atmosphere and you can’t help but wonder where the pieces are going to fall when they hit the earth.”

“I know.”  Steve nods quickly, happy that he and Tony are at last speaking the same language.  “Things like this really make you stop and think.”

Tony carries on.  “You sort of forced to think about what’s important and if some secrets are really worth keeping.”

“I...I feel exactly the same way.”

Tony looks up.  “Really?”

“Really,” Steve answers with nod.  “Some things are just too important to keep in, even if saying them out loud is a risk.”

“Exactly!”  Tony cuts in.  “It’s best to just lay your cards on the table.”

“So…” Steve starts hesitantly, “if I had something I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how your were going to react, you’d want me to come out with it even if the truth might upset you?”

Tony nods, quickly and he leans in.  “Absolutely.  I’ll listen to anything and everything you want to say.”  His voice is notably sincere, which gives Steve the courage to keep talking.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really.” Tony answers.  “We’re friends, right?  You can trust me.”

“Friends?”

“Aren’t we?”

Here goes nothing.  “No…I mean, yes…I just...”   _Deep breath_.  “I’d like us to be more than friends.”

The encouraging look disappears from Tony’s face and gives way to puzzlement.  He shifts, his body rearing slightly backwards as he looks at Steve in confusion.  “What?”

“Tony, I like you.”

“I like you too?”  Steve wishes he sounded more confident about that.

“No, I mean I _like_ you.  As a friend, yes, but possibly more.”

Steve can tell the exact moment when Tony finally gets it.  His eyes, which had previously been scrunched up in confusion, grow to the size of saucers, and his entire body gives a notable jerk.  Steve is somewhat put off by Tony’s surprise, given that they’ve sort of been flirting for months.  Sure, they’ve never talked about it before, but it’s not as if any of this is coming out of left field.  Tony, though, doesn’t seem to have gotten that memo, because he’s acting as if Steve’s just randomly broken into tap number or something equally bizarre.  When he finally gets around to speaking again, his voice is alarmingly faint.  

“That…that is _not_ where I thought you were going with this!”

Oh.  Okay.  So that’s a no.  Steve can feel his face going red, and he tries to balance his energy between keeping his face from flushing and ignoring the sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach.  He needs to get out of here.  Now, before the situation gets any worse.  “If you’re not interested, that’s fine – ” he stands, desperately willing himself not to use super-speed to leave the room.  He’s almost taken the first step when Tony reaches out and grabs his forearm.

“– Steve, that’s not…I mean of course I am.  Who wouldn’t be, but… _now_.  You’re doing this _now_?!”

Steve clings to the broken parts of Tony’s answer, hoping desperately that he’s interpreting those fragments correctly.  “Yes,” he answers cautiously, “now.  Like you said, an alien invasion does sort of prompt you to reconsider your life choices.”

Tony lets out a huffing noise that’s somewhere between laughter and exasperation.  “Yeah.  Yeah, an alien invasion makes you realize all sorts of unexpected things.”  He throws a pointed look at Steve, and Steve just can’t help but wonder what thoughts are hiding behind Tony’s inscrutable brown eyes.  

“So,” he starts hesitantly and carefully sits back down on the couch, “thoughts?”

“Oh, I have _so many thoughts._ ”  The tone of his voice doesn’t suggest what those thoughts are, though.

“Want to give me a hint?”

“I don’t...I just…”  It’s so unlike Tony to stutter that Steve’s a bit thrown.  “Why?” he finally asks.  “Why are you doing this?

He doesn’t really understand the question; Tony’s never had an issue with self-esteem before, so his train of thought makes no sense.  Still, if he needs to hear it...

“Umm, because you’re smart and funny and great to be around?”  He tries to keep the flush out of his face, but he’s pretty sure he’s only partially successful.

“That’s not what I – ” Tony starts, but he cuts himself off.  “Mmmmm.”

“Besides, if not now, when?   _Carpe diem,_ and all that.”  Steve’s lips curve upward, hoping that expressing his thoughts in a second language will up his chances.  He’s probably reaching, but he’ll take anything at this point.  

It takes a moment for Tony to snap back.  He seems...spaced out or something, like he’s contemplating about a million different things at once.  “That’s a bit fatalistic, you know.”

“How so?”

“The whole _carpe diem_ mindset is predicated on the belief that time is short and the end is near, so your stupid decisions in the present are totally justified.”  Tony’s voice drops, and he begins droning away in smooth, rolling syllables. _“Sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero._ ”  Somewhat shocked to hear the dead language coming out of Tony’s mouth, Steve desperately starts wracking his brain for his pre-serum memories of Latin.  

Fortunately, Tony follows with the translation.  “ _Scale back your long hopes to a short period. While we speak, time is envious and is running away from us. Seize the day, trusting little in the future._ ”  He smirks.  “Pretentious boarding school curriculum and a photographic memory.  I know my Latin and my Horace, alter boy.”  

He’s never going to stop being amazed by the brilliance of Tony’s mind.  Granted, he appreciates that mind a lot more when it’s not working against him, but his brainpower is a large part of what makes Tony, Tony.  Now comes the hard part – getting that brain to see his point of view.

“That’s one way to look at it.  But that argument assumes that the decision you're making is an impulse move that hasn’t been fully thought out.  And I’ve thought about this.”  Slowly, so that Tony has the opportunity to pull away, he reaches out and grabs the back of Tony’s hand in a mirror image of what they were doing earlier this morning.  “I’ve thought about it a lot.  And I’m tired of time running away.  I’d like to get out ahead of it for once.”  

He can see the battle going on inside of Tony’s head; despite the fact that they’re sitting less than a foot away from each other, the other man gone, wrapped up in some sort of mental landscape where he’s probably debating every conceivable outcome of their conversation.  Steve stays still, waiting for Tony to resurface, and hopes that whatever mental arithmetic Tony’s doing works out in his favor.  

At long last, Tony makes eye contact, and he moves his hand out from underneath Steve’s.  Steve tries not to take that as a bad sign.  “Look, there are about a million reasons why this is not a good idea.”

“That seems like an exaggeration.”

“I highly doubt that.”  

Tony scoffs.  “Well, for starters, you work for me.”

“Actually, I work for SHIELD.  I just liaise with you.”  Tony glares at him, and Steve’s not sure he appreciates the distinction.  Steve regroups.  “Are you still going to work on the Helicarrier designs after you finish your hospital battery?”

“It’s not a battery, Steve.  It’s a– ”

“– a clean energy power source, yes, I know,” he cuts in.  “Are you still planning on working for SHIELD afterward?”

“Yes,” Tony adds begrudgingly.  

“And is anything I do going to change that?

Steve knows he’s got him with that one; as much as Tony might like to downplay the extent of his of commitment, Steve knows that he’s not one to back out of a project without good cause.   

In lack of a better response, Tony shifts.  “Be that as it may, I don’t exactly have time for a relationship, Steve.  I pretty much live down here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Steve remains calm.  “I’m aware.  For all practical purposes, I pretty much live down here with you.  You know, in case you haven’t noticed.”  Judging from Tony’s nearly inarticulate squawk, he thinks that’s point two in his favor.  

“I’m older than you.”  Except the way that he says it makes it sound like a question, and Steve knows that Tony is digging.  Little does the other man know just how wrong he is.  

Steve gives him a very deliberate once over.  “Right, because you’re obviously ancient.”  

He’s never really seen Tony blush before, but the slight tinge of red on his cheeks is utterly captivating and, more importantly, makes him think he stands a chance.  He rotates just the slightest bit so that his body is squared with Tony’s and forces himself to look the other man in the eye.

“Look, I’m not asking for you to lock into a permanent commitment here.  My life’s up in the air at the moment too, and I can’t predict where things are headed.  But I _would_ like to spend time with you without pretending that I’m doing it for work-related purposes, because, in all honesty, that hasn’t been the case for a while now.”  He takes a breath and keeps going.  “We don’t have to jump into anything.  We can take things slow if you’d like, but I have to at least acknowledge that there’s something going on here.”

“Take things slow?”  Tony chews over the words, as if he’s digesting something incomprehensible in a foreign language.  “What does that even mean?”

“Whatever we want it to mean.”  At the moment, he’s willing to settle for it meaning Tony doesn’t permanently bar him from the lab.  “I just didn’t want to wait too long and miss my chance.”  

At that, Tony threads his fingers together and slumps down over his knees.  His neck tilts down toward his closed hands, and Steve’s trying his best not to read that as anything other than the dejection it looks like.  

At long last, Tony speaks.  “This is a horrible decision.”

 _Is._ Tony said _is._ He deliberately works to quell his excitement before responding.  “I don’t think so.”

“It could end badly.”

“It could.”  He lets the words sit on the silence before continuing.  “You want to try anyway?”

The reply is soft, and Steve doubts he could have heard it without enhanced hearing.  As it is, he can just barely make out Tony’s faint response.  “Okay.”

 _Tony said yes._  

He knows this is probably going to cause a slew of problems.  Fury is going live up to his name and start angrily questioning his sanity, not to mention what Nat and Clint are bound to say.  Remarkably, though, he finds he doesn’t really care about that.  All he knows is that he’s been _happy_ over these past few weeks, and now he’s got the possibility of even more happiness spread out in front of him.  

Not to mention, he’s got the seeds of an idea sprouting in the back of his head.  There’s a not-insignificant part of him about that feels guilty about trying to start a relationship when he’s keeping such a big secret from Tony.  But there’s no reason he can’t tell Tony the truth _eventually._ Tony’s got all of the requisite security clearance anyway; if this all works out – and Steve’s praying that it will – there’s no reason that Tony can’t know he’s Captain America.  After all, he already knows Iron Man’s identity.  What’s one more name added into the mix?  

So he’s not lying so much as...postponing the truth.  

But that’s not important right now.  What’s important is that _Tony said yes_.  

He doesn’t look too thrilled about it, though.  The residual stress from today’s events and the leftover maybe-we-shouldn’t-do-this vibes still have Tony looking relatively downcast.  More than that, Tony seems _nervous_ in a way that Steve hasn’t seen before.  While it’s a surprisingly endearing look on Tony, Steve hates being the one that put it there.  

He slides a bit closer to Tony on the couch and slowly brings his hand up to the side of his neck.  When Tony doesn’t flinch away, he moves up the second until both palms are resting against the edges of Tony’s face. His hands are broad enough that he can run his thumbs along Tony’s cheekbones while the center of his palms cradle the sides of his head.  He’s been wanting to do this for _weeks_ and now he finally can, mapping out the planes of Tony’s face with his fingers until he can set pen to paper and capture that expressive face now that he’s gotten to see it this close.  To his eternal satisfaction, Tony looks less apprehensive and far more invested in what’s going on.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, with just enough breathlessness to drive him insane.  

Steve increases the pressure for just a moment.  He brings his forehead to Tony’s for a few precious seconds before relaxing his grip and settling back on the couch.  “Taking things slow.”

When he lets go, Tony seems dazed and the slightest bit confused, but at least his confusion has stemmed from a more positive source this time around.  Steve takes advantage of Tony’s disorientation and snakes his arm around the back of the couch.  His hand is currently dangling a couple of inches beyond Tony’s right shoulder, but, if he’s lucky, he should be able to inch it closer over the course of the movie.  Slowly, though.  He’s pretty much used up his quota of luck for the night, and he doesn’t want to risk anything.

Not wanting to give Tony too much time to think things over, Steve settles in and gazes toward the ceiling.  “JARVIS, could you pull up the next movie in the queue?”

JARVIS neglects to add his usual snark, but the viewing screen appears in its usual place in front of the sofa.  Steve can see the poster from whatever movie’s next on the list, but he honestly couldn’t care less.  He’s far too concerned with the man sitting next to him.  

Tony, however, seems far more engaged with what’s just appeared on the screen.  He starts off with an inelegant snort, but within a couple of seconds he’s broken out into full-fledged laughter.  To Steve’s eternal satisfaction, Tony curls toward rather than away from him when the laughter causes him to double over.

“What is it?” he queries, eager to know what it is that’s brought Tony so much glee.  

“Nothing,” he insists, as his full-bellied laughs give way to occasional snickers.  

That still doesn’t explain Tony’s sudden outburst.  “What’s so funny?”

Tony calms down, though his voice is still unbalanced.  “We’re watching _The Princess Bride_.”

“What’s it about?”

It takes Tony a moment to answer.  “A scrawny farm boy gets captured by pirates, but he somehow beats all odds and ends up leader of the fleet.  Years later, he comes back in disguise to reclaim his true love and right the wrongs of the kingdom.”  He smirks, a slightly manic glint in his eye.  “I just really like this movie.”  He burrows into the couch cushions, the left side of his body just barely touching Steve’s.  “Nothing like a little escapism to take your mind off the present.”


	11. Developments

Honestly, he still has no idea how it happened.  

One minute he’s subconsciously guilting Steve into a confession, and the next he’s...dating the man?  If JARVIS didn’t have the footage, he’d swear he’d made the whole thing up.  But nope, the proof’s all there.  The Stark servers now have highly-classified video footage of him agreeing to “take it slow” with Captain America and their subsequent cuddling/movie-watching session.  How they went from arguing about their alien induced epiphanies to watching Mandy Patinkin swordfight with a Spanish accent is anyone’s guess.  If someone figures it out, they should really let him know.  

Dating Steve Rogers is simultaneously the most rewarding and the most frustrating thing he’s done in his entire life.  On the one hand, he’s _dating Steve_ , who is both the world’s biggest nerd and the sweetest guy he’s ever met.  All the things that people usually loathe about Tony – his snarkiness, his know-it-all attitude, his frequent tech fugues – Steve actually seems to _like_ , and quite frankly, he has no idea how to handle that.  

On the other hand, he’s tangled so deeply in a web of lies that he’s probably not going to be able to escape without hacking off a few limbs.  He’s Tony Stark, but he’s also Iron Man.  He’s dating Steve, who’s also Captain America.  But Steve doesn’t know that he’s Iron Man, and Steve doesn’t know that Tony knows that he’s Captain America.  They’ve saved the world together twice, but Steve remains blissfully unaware of their combined awesomeness.  And Tony’s all for keeping it that way.

He’s basically living Schrödinger’s Relationship; so long as Steve doesn’t know he’s Iron Man, they can both go on living in a state of relative equilibrium.  Rip off the shiny gold face mask, and he’s not so sure the relationship’s still alive.  

Not to mention the fact that the whole double, double identity thing (and isn’t that just _great_ ) is giving him all sorts of _qualms._ Despite Steve’s insane level of hotness and his own ridiculous level of horniness, he can never quite get over the fact that he’s dating Steve under false pretenses.  As far as Steve knows, he’s dating Tony Stark, sarcastic billionaire and inventor of the most sophisticated piece of armored technology known to mankind.  He didn’t exactly sign up for dating the man inside of that armor

That in mind, he’s constantly thinking about the possibilities of what happens when Steve figures out the truth.  It’s bound to happen sooner or later, but he’s not at all certain how it will all play out.  Yes, Steve’s implicitly lying to him by not coming clean about the whole super-powered World War II vet thing, but Tony’s hardly an innocent party here.  He’s got his own little repulsor-propelled secret, which admittedly, is not the best foundation on which to build a relationship.  His only saving grace is that Steve is doing the _exact same thing_.  Steve did it _first._ Somehow, he doubts the Kindergarten defense grants him the moral high ground.    

The best possible way he envisions the big reveal going down is where Steve’s finally comes out and confesses.  Hypothetical Steve is so guilty about his double-life that he just spills everything.  That’s the point where he can be all, _I totally forgive you sweetheart.  You were only trying to do what you thought was best, so I completely understand your protective instincts, and I’m totally on board with your decision.  Andbythewayimironman._ Theoretically, that confession comes off as gracefully magnanimous and not at all hypocritical.  

Fuck, he’s screwed.  

The downside to his little secret is that their respective double lives have ensured their relationship stays PG, which is not remotely fair.  Because Steve is right _there,_ and he’s _Steve_ , but he’s also _Captain fucking America_ , and all of those things come together to make one lust-inducing yet eternally unavailable paragon of human perfection.  If he’s going to be wallowing around in angst and self-loathing, then dammit, he should be getting sex out of it:  mind-blowing, athletic, slightly-guilty Steve sex with kinky foreplay and feeling-laced orgasms.  Instead, he’s living the life of a fourteen-year-old girl who’s nervous about going to second base.  (At least, he assumes this is what fourteen-year-olds do; at that age, he was already at MIT, and his ‘dates’ involved a not-insignificant amount of alcohol and other such substances.)  And, unfortunately for him, actually getting to second base will ruin everything.

Because he has the world’s most inconvenient and conspicuous fashion accessory embedded in his chest.  If Steve gets one look at that thing or even leans into his chest too firmly, the whole jig is up.  There’s really no way to justify it.   _Pay no attention to the shiny blue flashlight embedded in my chest; it’s not at all strange or similar to Iron Man’s arc reactor.  We just share the same fashion aesthetic.  TOTALLY a coincidence._

Yeah, that’s not going to fly.

So despite the fact that his body’s screaming at him to _just get it on already,_ his head’s warning him to keep his distance.  For all practical purposes, he’s leaving room for the Holy Spirit That He Doesn’t Believe in Yet Still Manages to Cockblock Him.  It’s unendingly frustrating, and he spends most of his time torn between breaking out in hysterics and searching for a nice, solid brick wall to beat his head against.  It’s been a week since Steve’s little alien-epiphany, and apparently ‘take it slow’ just means doing exactly what they’ve been doing and calling it dating.  Whether that’s a result of Steve’s old-time sensibilities or his waiting for Tony to make the first move, Tony doesn’t know, but it’s slowly driving him insane. For the foreseeable future, he’s got the worst case of red, white, and blue balls known to man, and he’s locked into a constant state of anxiety over the future of his love life.

That’s why this business trip is probably coming at a good time.  Until Pepper’s email (and JARVIS’ four reminders), he’d completely forgotten that he was scheduled to go and negotiate with staff in Beijing.  The timing’s inconvenient, and it totally throws a wrench in his current workflow, but maybe the distance will be helpful in sorting out what exactly Steve is to him.  He can’t exactly trust his better judgment when he’s around the man.  Space is good.  Space means clarity. 

 

* * *

Space _used_ to mean clarity.  

In previous years, his trips to the Stark International branches had been wild.  Everyone went all-out to impress the boss, particularly when said boss was making decisions about fiscal expenditures.  Things have gotten slightly less riotous since he’d come back from Afghanistan, but he can still usually count on foreign trips to a be a distraction from the daily grind.  

Not so anymore.  Now, instead of contemplating what sort of entertainment he has to look forward to, he spends his time speculating on what Steve’s doing.  Instead of focusing on international operating costs and ways to maximize regional outputs, he’s mentally computing the time difference between Beijing and New York City so he can guesstimate Steve’s activities.  

Pathetic?  Yes.  Illuminating?  Maybe.  

Because despite being nearly 7,000 miles away, his thoughts are still back stateside with Steve.  Apparently, absence does make the heart grow fonder, along with all of those other saccharine cliches that secretly make him flinch.  Case in point; instead of reading up on the business meeting he’s supposed to chair in 30 minutes, he’s texting Steve from the limo:  

***How’s Beijing?***

***Ok.***

***The food’s good.***

***Plus, there’s the added benefit that I’m usually the tallest person in the room.***

***Even without your lifts?***

***…***

***No one likes a smart ass, Steven.***

***That’s debatable.***

***Still, it’s a good feeling, isn’t it?***

***Being tall or being a smart ass?***

***Both.***

***But mainly the tall thing.***

***Both are good.***

***You holding down the fort?***

***For the most part.***

***Dum-E may or may not have run into the centrifuge.***

***Were you playing fetch with my robot again?!***

***...maybe.***

***Don’t encourage his bad habits!***

***He misses you.***

***When I mentioned your name, he started waving his phone around like he wanted to call you.***

***…***

***Bad habits, Steve.***

***That flip phone better be gone by the time I get home.***

***Did he break the centrifuge?***

***I don’t think so.***

***JARVIS said everything looks okay, but I have no way of knowing if something’s wrong.***

***Lights are blinking.***

***Lights?***

***What kind of lights?***

***I don’t know.***

***Just lights.***

***That doesn’t help me.***

***Unless it’s going to randomly blow up, I think we’ll be okay until you get back.***

***Between the two of you, I am seriously concerned for my lab.***

***I have everything under control.***

The shock at seeing the Star Wars image jolts him out of his texting coma.  What the hell?!  When did Steve learn how to do that?  Gifs are _his_ thing.  More to the point, how did Steve go about finding this particular image so quickly and placing it in context?  The man just saw _A New Hope_ a couple of weeks ago, for Christ’s sake.  And Steve is not allowed to use Harrison against him.  That’s just untold levels of cheating.  Plus it makes it hard to stay mad at him.  

He’s trying to think of an appropriately witty response when the phone buzzes again.  

***I have to go.  Work’s calling.***

***All right.  Go file paperwork or whatever it is you do.***

***Very funny.**

***I miss you.***

It takes him a moment to think about how to answer that one.  He types out several replies with various levels of commitment before settling on a response.

***I know.***

Then, to avoid sounding like a complete dick and just in case Steve doesn’t get the reference, he adds one more line.  

***I miss you too.***

 

* * *

“Tony, what’s going on?”

His head snaps up.  A consequence of his back and forth with Steve is that he’s forgotten, oh yeah, he’s not alone in the limo.  Pepper, fabulous CEO that she is, is sitting across from him with an assortment of files and paperwork spread across her lap.  However, instead of flipping through the multitude of pages, she currently turned her eyes on him with an inquisitive look.

“Hmm?”

Pepper glares at the phone glued to his hand.  “You’ve been attached to that thing for the last thirty minutes.  Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

“Nothing!”  His answer is meant to be reassuring, but Pep’s obviously not buying it, because her look goes from curious to suspicious in about half a second.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he reaffirms.  It only takes him a few blinks to break.  “Nothing business related.  I’m just texting Steve.”

“Steve...do we know a Steve?”

“I’d hope so, since you’re the one who let him into my lab.”  When her eyes stay blank, he elaborates.  “You probably know him as Agent Stalker.”

Her shoulders jump slightly.  “Wait, are you talking about Agent Rogers?  Steve, as in SHIELD Steve?”

“That’s the one.”   _Please leave it.  Please leave it._

“What are you doing texting your SHIELD liaison?  Are you working on a project that I don’t know about?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”  Pepper glares at him as if she expects him to continue speaking, and he knows that he’s not going to be able to dodge this one.  In lieu of lying to Pepper - the woman _always_ finds him out eventually - he resolves on speaking very quickly.  “I could very well possibly be dating Steve,” he blurts out.   

She blinks.  “Say that again without all of the conditionals.”

He gulps one more time and chops the sentence in half.  “I’m dating Steve Rogers.”

Pepper stares at him as if he’s grown a second head.  “Dating?  As in dating, dating?”

“I don’t really think there’s another way you can say it,” he replies testily.  

“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”  He can see the wheels in her head turning, when all of the sudden she stops abruptly and looks him in the eye.  “You’re not sleeping with your SHIELD contact to, like, get him on your side or something, are you?”

“What?  No!”  That just sounds wrong.  Although it is Steve, so...nope, still wrong.  “We haven’t even…”  Oh, crap, he did not mean to say that out loud.  

Pepper, genius that she is, latches on to his slip up  immediately and shows no signs of  letting go.  “Haven’t even...Tony!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do.  I really, really do.”  Funny thing is, she looks _happy_ for him, as if his prolonged abstinence is a good thing.  “He must be really special, if you’re dating a SHIELD agent without any of your usual incentives.”  

He laughs, but even he can tell it’s entirely devoid of humor.  “Oh, if only that was all of it.”

“Tony, what did you do?”

“Why do you automatically assume it’s my fault?”

“Experience.  Now spill.”

* * *

 “... but he doesn’t know that I’m Iron Man.  Or that I know he’s Captain America.”

As he finishes the long, twisted story of his interactions with Steve, he looks up, hoping to find sympathy and a bit of encouragement from one of his best friends.  

Pepper, it seems, has a different idea.  His usually poised assistant turned CEO has her face buried in her hands, the edges of her fingertips just brushing her hairline.  Noting that he’s reached a stopping point, she parts her hands just a little, so she can start speaking softly.  

“You’re both _so stupid_.”

Tony recoils.  “Well, that’s a bit harsh.”

“No, Tony, it’s not.  What are you even thinking?”  Pep usually reserves that tone of voice for when he’s said something particularly egregious to a board member, and he sees no reasons why she’s using it now.  Honestly, she’s not the one that’s dating an incognito Captain America.

“It’s not like I planned this!” he insists.  

“And you ended up dating the man because…”  She waits, her eyes expectant.  

“Because…” he struggles, trying to put into words something he hasn’t fully wrapped his head around yet.  “I just...I like him, okay?”  

“You like him?” she repeats, although her tone is loaded with patent disbelief.  

“Yes.”

Pepper’s been his friend for a really long time.  She’s stuck with him through the good, the bad, the ugly, and even that brief attempt at dating that ended with them both agreeing they were better off keeping things platonic.  Aside from Rhodey, she’s probably been in his life longer than anyone, and she’s always called him on his shit.  More to the point, she’s one of very few people on the planet who can interpret that ‘yes’ for what it really means.  

“Okay,” she starts, and this time her voice is a lot more cautious.  “You like him.  How long has this thing been going on?”

Tony thinks back.  “He started showing up at the lab back in February.  I let him in a couple weeks later.”

“And how long has he been coming to the lab?”

“Pretty much every day for the last few months.”

“And you found out he was Captain America when?”

“About a week ago.”

She flinches a little at that, and Tony can’t exactly read the look in her eyes.  “Are you, Tony Stark, telling me that you’ve been in a relationship for the past three months, and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”  Her voice raises toward the end of the statement, and now she’s looking at him with the beginnings of her Evil Eye.  

“No, you weren’t listening.  We only started dating about a week ago.”

“But you’ve spent time with him, every day, in your lab, listening to music and watching old movies and talking about your work for months?”

Well, when she puts it like that…  When he doesn’t answer, Pep takes it upon herself to keep talking.  “Tony, for anyone else _that is a relationship_!”

He strikes back, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken, even if he’s had the same thoughts himself.  “And the whole, Captain America, Iron Man thing?  How do those details work into your little couple scenario?”

Even Pepper has to stop and think about that one.  “It’s...unusual, I’ll admit.  But for being part-time superheroes, the two of you are surprisingly domestic.”

That very well may be the first time the word ‘domestic’ has ever been applied to him; for lack of a good response, he glares and remains silent.

After a moment, Pepper picks up the slack.  “Tell him.”

“Tell him what?” he demands.  She can’t possibly mean -

“Tell him you know about the Captain America thing and that you’re Iron Man.”

Okay, she meant it.  It still sounds like an absolutely horrible idea.  “Umm, have you been listening to anything I’ve said?  Avoiding the truth is sort of what’s been allowing the relationship to work.”

Pepper sighs.  “Look, I’m not your assistant or your Mom, so I’m not going to tell you how to live your life.  Just do whatever you think is best.  But if you think this can turn into something real, don’t start out by keeping secrets.”  

He lets the advice breathe for a few seconds, turning over the ends and outs of Pepper’s suggestion.  When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible.  “What if he leaves?”

“I think the question you really want to ask is ‘What if he stays?’” Pepper shoots back, though not unkindly.  “Think of it this way.  So long as you’ve got this hanging over your head, you’re always going to be thinking about what happens when the hammer strikes.  At least this way, you can control the descent.”  

“I’ll think about it,” he says after a moment.

“Good,” Pepper says, and straightens back up.  “And while you’re at it, you’d better tell him that if he breaks your heart, I’ll kick his ass.”

Tony laughs at that, both at the un-Pepper-like profanity and at her sudden proclivity toward violence.  “Umm, I’m pretty sure he’s a scientifically enhanced super-soldier.”

Pepper levels him with her best glare and cocks one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.  “Kick.  His.  Ass,” she repeats, emphasizing each syllable.

And just like that, he believes her.  Despite the fact that Steve has perfect muscles and some legitimate alien smashing abilities, if it came down to it, he’d probably place his money on Pepper.  The woman is brutal when it comes to defending things she cares about, and Tony counts himself fortunate enough to be considered one of those things.


	12. Stateside

Considering the fact that he’s spent the past seventy years frozen in an iceberg, five days should not feel like an exceedingly long amount of time.  Expectation and reality, he’s coming to find, are two drastically different things.  

He’s fine, though.  So his runs may be slightly longer than usual, and he may hit the bag a little bit harder than he probably should.  Everything’s fantastic.  It’s not like he’s pining or anything.  

“What are you doing here?”

Clint’s voice rings across the gym and interrupts his internal monologue.  Not wanting to stop and chat, he gestures to the bag with one clenched fist.  “Training.”

“I can see that.  It’s just, you’re usually off to liaise by this time in the afternoon.  Something up with Stark?”

“No.”   _Punch_.  “He’s away.”   _Jab, cross._ “On business.”

“Oh,” Clint answers, his voice not quite judgmental, but still loaded.  “Why do I get the feeling that’s not the entire story?”

Steve debates turning his attention back to the bag, but really, the whole exercise hasn’t been very soothing.  He steps back and moves to unwrap the tape from his hands.  He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his palms as he answers, “It’s not.”

“Really?”  Clint’s voice hits the perfect balance between interested and aloof; if Steve wants to keep going, he’s more than open to listening, but he’s not prying.  Steve can appreciate that, and it makes him keep talking.”

“No,” he slows down his movements so he has a legitimate excuse to do something with his hands.  “Do you remember a while back when you teased that there might be something going on between me and Stark?”

Clint looks chagrin.  “Yeah, man.  I’m sorry about that.  It was out of line.”

“It really wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t?” Clint repeats, his voice asking for validation.

“Nope.  You just managed to catch onto something sooner than I did.”

“Uh huh.  So what does that mean?  Are you and Stark, like, a thing?”

“Maybe?”  He thinks they are at least, but at times he’s not so sure.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he answers back, the ends of the tape unfurling from around his palm, “that we decided to take things slow.”

“And that entails…”  Clint’s voice trails off, leaving Steve to fill in the gap.

“Pretty much doing what we usually do.”  When the other man’s eyebrows fold in, Steve goes on the defense before Clint can get a word in.  “Look, Tony’s just really busy alright?  He’s got this major project he’s working on, and he doesn’t really have time for an active social life.”

“But he did agree to, you know, date you, right?  You used that exact word?”

“Yes,” he rejoins.  “We’re taking it slow.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Oh.”  To be honest, the justification didn’t sound very good to begin with anyway.

“What about – ” Clint’s voice trails off, but his eyes travel up and down Steve’s frame, and it only takes a moment to guess what he’s asking.

“He doesn’t know.  Not about that.”

Which is the entire crux of the issue.  Despite having practically no experience at relationships, he knows that it’s probably not a good idea to start one out on a lie.  He’d been willing to compromise a bit if it meant he’d have a chance with Tony, but Tony seems…he doesn’t know what to call it besides reluctant.  Aside from their one conversation after the alien in Central Park, they haven’t really addressed idea of being a couple.  The only difference between “dating” and “not dating” that Steve can see is that they sit a couple of inches closer when they’re eating, and he lets his eyes linger a bit longer before turning away.  That’s all on him, though.  Tony hasn’t done anything remotely out of the ordinary, except maybe being a bit too peppy.  Their interactions are _forced_ now, in a way that they didn’t use to be, which is the absolute last thing he wanted to happen.

“Damn,” Clint answers, his eyes contemplative.  “That’s got to put you in a tight spot, with the whole super-soldier plus Avenger plus the frozen, time-travelish thing.”

“That’s one way to put it.”  Yes, he is acutely aware of the “frozen time-travelish thing.”  Clint also forgot to mention the fact that he may-or-may not age normally and he knew Tony’s dad as a young man.  You know, just in case he didn’t have enough to worry about.

“There are ways to declassify things, though.  I mean, it’s not easy, but if it gets to the point, you could tell Stark if he signs an NDA.  Hell, he’s probably already got one on file, what with inventing Iron Man and all.”  Clint’s eyes grow big and his shoulders jump.  “Can I be there when you tell Fury?  Oh, please let me be in the room.  Or at least in the vents.  This is something that must be _seen_!”

“I don’t think I'm ready for that yet.  Let’s at least get in one date first.”  At least, if that’s something Tony’s still interested in.  Gosh, he’s confused.

“Fair enough.  All I’m saying is, I have to be there if and when it happens.”

“I’ll consider it.”  

* * *

After a probably too-long amount of time, he finally makes his way out of headquarters and back to the lab, which is a strangely empty place without Tony.

Every other time he’s been down here, the large swaths of space and the bizarre futuristic technology hadn’t intimidated him at all.  Even if the machines and blips and holographic screens were far beyond his comprehension, Tony was always _there_ to be infinitely more distracting.  He humanizes the space in a way that makes the ultramodern decor seem homey and inviting.  Without him, the space transforms back into a mass of steel and chrome and glass that's austerely beautiful but not very comforting.

Still, even with Tony gone, the empty lab space is still more personable than his lackluster SHIELD apartment.  Tony’d given him permission to ‘couch surf’ while he was gone, with the strict instructions that he was to mind the bots and water the ficus.  He assumes that he was being facetious about that last part, but he’d seemed genuine about the first.  At least, he’d decided the offer was genuine. For one, the amenities here are much nicer – he’s gotten a bit spoiled by having JARVIS on call and the WIFI speed is fantastic.  More to the point, it’s still the place where he feels the most comfortable.  He’s got sketchpads and books and that weird brand of protein bars that he actually likes all neatly arranged in his own little section of the room.  Even without Tony’s white noise sounding in the background, he’d much rather be somewhere he finds the slightest bit homey.  

As the lab doors slide open, he sees Dum-E slowly make his way toward the front section of the lab.  

“Hey, boy,” he says as he reaches out and runs a hand over his pincer.  He doesn’t care what Tony says; his robot _pines_.  (He refuses to question whether or not that term applies to him too.)  Dum-E nudges up against his palm in return, and Steve’s grateful for the fact that at least someone else is here to make noise.

He takes a few more moments to tend to Dum-E before he make his way to the counter and shrug off his bag.  As he pulls his phone out, he’s surprised to find that he’s gotten one new message during the short ride over.  

***Are you awake?***

Fortunately, the timestamp lets him know that he’s only missed the text by eight minutes, and he quickly shoots off a reply in the hopes that Tony will still be able to respond.

***Yes.  It’s only six here.***

The answer pops in quickly.  

***6 AT NIGHT.***

***It’s 6 AM here, and I’m in hell.***

***Literal hell.***

***Why are you awake at six am?***

***We’re driving out to inspect a production facility today.***

***We have to beat the traffic.***

***I’ve had like 8 cups of coffee, and everything hurts.***

***You know better.***

***I am awake.***

***This is the price.***

***WTF!?***

***You can’t have just drawn that.***

***Nope.***

***I had it prepared.***

***I plan ahead.***

He allows himself a smirk.  He has the theme song; he might as well embrace it.  

***This is your natural state.***

***I knew I’d have a use for it sooner or later.***

***Turns out, it’s sooner rather than later.***

***Not cool, Steve.***

***I feel personally attacked.***

***You should.  This is what you’re subjecting your poor** staff to **.***

The image catches him off guard.  It’s Tony, but a much younger Tony than he’s ever seen.  The man in the picture can’t be older than 20, but he’s still got Tony’s signature smirk and cocky eyebrows.

***Is that...Is that you as a teenager?***

***Reporters have followed me around for a very long time, Steve.***

***They occasionally catch something useful.***

***For example, this is my "I don't care" face.***

***Keeping it real since 1987.***

And that...that gives him an idea. He quickly starts typing out a response.

***Really?***

***That's very interesting?***

***So if I were to, say, Google you, I could potentially find some interesting material?***

***Steve, no.***

***Steve bad.***

***Stop it.***

***Don't do it…***

He knows he’s going to need a bit of assistance on this one.  Not bothering to look up this time, he speaks aloud.  

“JARVIS, could you help me out on this one?”

“What exactly are you looking for this time, Sir?”

He thinks about how exactly he needs to phrase this.  Yesterday, when he’d told JARVIS he needed something that basically said ‘We’re okay here,’’ JARVIS had sent three options to his phone.  When Steve had seen the clip from that space movie that Tony had insisted he watch, he knew he’d chosen the right one.  

“Could you maybe find me some clips of Tony being foolish in public?

“With pleasure, Sir.”

The response time is remarkably fast, even for JARVIS, and the results _certainly_ do not disappoint.    

***Wow.***

***Just, wow.***

***What?***

***What did you find?!***

Steve scrolls through the alarmingly long list of results, clicks three images at random, and forwards them to Tony.

***In my defense, talk shows are boring, and my dance moves are amazing!***

***And the last one?***

***I got nothing.***

His face has burst into a wide grin by the time JARVIS’ voice rings out.

“Might I suggest an image query?”

It strikes Steve as slightly odd that JARVIS is volunteering information, but he’s willing to run with it.  Trust JARVIS to know where all of the secrets are buried.  

The image results are almost worse than the videos.

“What on Earth - ”

“These are just a sample of Sir’s questionable wardrobe choices throughout the years.  I must add that all of these images were taken willingly, with Mr. Stark’s full knowledge and enthusiasm.”

Yup, the AI is definitely enjoying this.  “These are,” he struggles to characterize the pictures, “most definitely something.”

“Indeed.  Might I suggest a hairstyle query next?”

“Um, I think we’re good for now.  We’ll keep that in reserve.”  He checks on an image and hits ‘Send.’ 

****

***Explain this.***

***Ummm***

***And this.***

***AND THIS!***

***In my defense, I don't remember that much of the 90s.***

***The internet does :)***

***I’m revoking your cell phone privileges.***

***That’s okay***

***I’ll just steal Dum-E’s.***

***FLIP***

***PHONES***

***ARE***

***UNACCEPTABLE***

***UNDER***

***ANY***

***CIRCUMSTANCES***

***But there’s a time and place for cheetah print bathrobes?***

***How are you even finding these?***

***You could barely use the internet a few months ago!***

“JARVIS?” he prompts.

“Forwarding suggestions now.”

***We haven’t even watched that movie yet!!!”***

***No, Steve.***

***Just no.***

***You do NOT get to use the Brat Pack against me.”**

**“You weren’t a teenager in the 80s.***

***You don’t have the right.***

***I’m hanging up now.***

***Mainly because I’m mad at you, but also because we’re here.***

***LNVHFADS!()!#MWNXOIU***

Steve’s pretty sure that last string of text isn’t meant to be intelligible, but he counts it as a win nevertheless.  Now he just has to brush up on the references so that Tony doesn’t call him on his bluff.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” he says, temporarily closing out of his inbox.  

“My pleasure, Sir.  I thought it best to keep with slightly dated references, since the conversations seemed to be drifting in that direction.”   

“Well, I think we managed to win the conversation, so I’d say it was a success.”

“Not an easy feat, I assure you.”

Well, JARVIS would know.  He’s the person...guy...thing...entity Tony seems to argue with the most.  Which, come to think of it, probably means he has a fairly accurate insight into Tony’s mindset.  

He phrases a tentative question.  “JARVIS, how long have you been – ” he struggles for the right word, “ – awake?”

“Sir first activated my programming in August of 1993.”

“And you’ve been with him ever since?”

“For the most part, yes.”  JARVIS responds.  “Barring brief intervals of unresponsiveness.”

He gets the feeling that’s JARVIS-talk for ‘time spent in Afghanistan,’ and is hesitant to keep going.  Still, he gets the feeling that, despite being a computer program, JARVIS probably knows more of Tony’s secrets than anyone else.  

“And you listen to everything that goes on down here?”  He’s still trying to pretend that freak him out.  Might as well use it to his advantage though.  

“Unless instructed not to.”

“It it’s not too bold of me to ask,” he starts, “what do you think of me and Tony?”

“I’m…” the AI pauses, and even Steve knows the hesitation is uncharacteristic, “...not quite sure what you mean.”

“What do you think of me and Tony?” he reiterates.  “If you’ve seen everything that goes on down here, then you must have some opinion of how we relate to each other.”

Silence.  

“JARVIS?”  

“I have indeed drawn my own conclusions based on your interactions with Sir.  I’m just perplexed as to why would want to hear it.”

“Because I think it’s worth hearing.  If you’d like to share that is.”  He’s not exactly sure what the protocols are for soliciting a computer’s opinion, but he’s pretty sure that whatever’s going to offer contains his usual level of insight.  After a moment, the clipped British voice begins speaking.

“I have noted several improvements in Sir’s daily functioning since the initiation of your friendship.  He eats more frequently and imbibes less caffeine than usual.  Mostly at your insistence, he engages in a much more regular sleep pattern, or at least as regular a sleep pattern as I dared myself to hope.  Even his productivity has benefited.  While he admittedly spends less time working on designs than before you arrived in the lab, the time he does spent working is more efficient and productive.  I suspect that is because he wishes to give you his full attention when you’re present.  Sir is, for all intents and purposes, happier with you in his life, and I will assist you in and so far as your presence enriches his.”

Steve can feel the heat rising in his cheek’s a JARVIS’ barrage of semi-compliments.  It’s...comforting to think that his presence helps Tony in some small way, particularly since so much of his own day-to-day life seems to rely on Tony.  

“The only disadvantage I can see to such improvements is the threat of reversion.  While Mr. Stark has show remarkable improvements within the brief period of your interactions, I am concerned that he might revert to his prior behavior – or worse – overexert himself should your...relationship sour.”

And there it is.  Trust a computer program to hone in on his deepest insecurity.  Despite the fact that the answer may not be to his liking, he can’t stop himself from asking –

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“You’re always welcomed to ask.  Whether or not I am free to answer is another matter.”

Fair enough.  

“This – thing – that’s going on between me and Tony.  Do you get the impression that it’s something he wants?”

JARVIS is silent for a disturbingly long time, leaving only the faint hum of the machines for Steve to focus on.  He’s just about to tell JARVIS to forget the whole thing, when the AI starts speaking in a soft, measured tone.  

“My protocols forbid me from disclosing things Sir wishes to keep confidential.  I am not allowed to reveal anything that he has told me in confidence or that would threaten the security of Mr. Stark or any of his associates.”

Well, it was worth a shot…

“However, I don’t think it would be in breach of protocol to observe that Sir has checked his phone during this business trip far more frequently than on previous occasions.  Furthermore, his increased heart rate and dilated pupil while in your presence suggest that he finds your company enjoyable.  

Steve takes a moment to wonder exactly what JARVIS deems ‘confidential’ because it seems like he just disclosed a lot of information, if in an admittedly roundabout way.  If JARVIS is to be believed – and he’s learned to always believe JARVIS – Tony feels _something_ for him.  Maybe the awkwardness is just him projecting?  Whatever the case, it’s nice to get some external confirmation that he’s not crazy.  

“Thank you, JARVIS.  That helps.”

“I’m glad to be of service, Agent Rogers.  That is, so long as your actions are in Sir’s best interest.”

Steve chuckles a bit at that.  He assumes he’s just gotten the equivalent of a shovel talk from Tony’s AI, but he’s can’t exactly disagree with anything that JARVIS has said, given that he happens to agree with most of the assertions.  Only time will tell if he and Tony are better off together.  

Putting the dilemma temporarily out of his mind, at least as much as he’s able, he shifts gears.  “So, what’s on the agenda for the night?” he asks, burrowing back into the couch cushions and grabbing a throw he’s taken to leaving on the side of the couch.  

“Next on Sir’s list of preapproved films is _Men in Tights._ ”  

The title takes him aback.  “That sounds bizarre.”  

“It is a rather bizarre film.”  The projection shifts to display an image of a man in a feathered hat with a longbow who’s balancing four, five, _six_ arrows on his drawstring.  He rather doubts that’s possible.  If it was, Clint would have tried it by now.  

“Is that...is that supposed to be Robin Hood?” Steve asks, somewhat incredulously.  

“Indeed.  I believe this is meant to be a comical adaptation that pokes fun at the Sherwood legend.  There are musical numbers in addition to the aforementioned tights.”

Sometimes the future is very strange.  “I doubt it’ll top Errol Flynn,” he says somewhat testily to himself.”

“If you would like,” JARVIS intercedes, “I can queue up the 1938 Flynn _Robin Hood_ and save this title for a later date.”

The offer takes him by surprise; he’s never really deviated from the list of movies that Tony has deemed, by some inexplicable Tony-logic, imperative to his cultural assimilation.  This though, this sounds like it might be a good idea.  

He can remember seeing this movie either five or seventy-four years ago, depending on the frame of reference.  He and Bucky had shelled out twenty-five cents apiece for a midnight showing and even splurged on a ten cent bag of popcorn.  A week later they’d done the same thing all over again; it was that good.  There was just something really inspiring about watching Flynn’s Robin Hood jump off that drawbridge, muster his men, and speak out against a tyrannical regime.  

In retrospect, his career choice makes a lot of sense.  

As JARVIS takes his silence for acquiescence and pulls up the movie, he realizes an added benefit of rewatching the film.  For the first time, he’s going to experience this thing in full color.  He’d always felt somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to see the Merry Men decked out in their trademark green; he’d always just taken Buck’s word for it that the colors were very striking.  Now, though, he gets to absorb everything himself.

As the triumphant notes of Korngold’s opening score resound from the lab’s speakers, he allows himself a brief moment of nostalgia before settling in for the film.  He should probably be brushing up on something more modern, but right now he just wants something comfortable.  After all, just because the film’s slightly dated doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value.  

Some things get old, but others become classics.   


	13. Artful Doings

Steve had always been a light sleeper.  In his younger years, the slightest noise could jerk him awake in a second, and the serum had only made the instinct that much stronger.  One bump, one twitch out of the ordinary, and he could go from mid-dream to battle ready in an instant.  Lately, the skill hasn’t been put to much use; walls are much thicker now, and he technically isn’t in a combat zone.  Still, when the familiar hiss of the lab door sounds out for no apparent reason, old instincts come into play and jolt him into sudden alertness.  His eyes immediately gravitate toward the newly opened doors as he simultaneously straightens on the couch only to find…Tony?

The inventor, who’s not supposed to be back in New York for at least another day, freezes in the entryway, his eyes locking on Steve in confusion.  “You’re here,” he says, somewhat dazed.

“I’m here,” Steve replies, for lack of a better response.

Tony blinks a couple of times and tilts his head to the side.”  “No, I mean you’re actually here?  “I’m asking.  I just got off a twelve-hour flight and I’m pretty sure I have jetlag.”

It shows.  Even in the lab’s dim lighting, Steve can see the bags under Tony’s eyes and the way his mouth is a little more drawn than usual.  His blinking more frequently, too, as if it’s a continual flight to keep his eyes open.

“I’m here,” Steve assures.  “I promise.”  Although why he’s here is another matter entirely.  He’s pulled a couple of late nights in the lab, both with Tony and since he’s been gone, but he’s never actually fallen asleep here before.  Nor has he really slept this late, at least not in a very long time.  Tony’s not the only one who’s been losing sleep lately.

“I think I must have crashed last night,” he starts somewhat guiltily, rubbing his eyes and taking stock of his surroundings.

“You’re fine,” Tony cuts in quickly as he steps into the room, stripping off his jacket as he makes his way inside.  “I can’t count how many times I’ve fallen asleep on that sofa.”

Steve momentarily debates explaining how odd it is for him to sleep this late in the morning, but quickly decides against it.  

“How was Beijing?” he asks instead.

Tony shrugs.  “Boring.  Lots of meetings, lots of paperwork.  New York?”

“Pretty much the same as it always is.  No aliens or demonic robots, though.”

“Aside from Dum-E,” Tony cuts in with a tired grin.

“Aside from Dum-E.”  The robot in question offers a series of offended sounding beeps from his charging station across the lab, and Tony offers him one sardonic eyebrow in response.  Steve allows himself a brief moment of amusement, before rubbing the sleep crust out of his eyes.  “I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t.  We’d just done all that needed to be done, and there didn’t seem like a good reason to stay.”  Tony  maintains eye contact for a moment, looking like he’s on the verge of saying something, before turning away abruptly.  “So...pizza?  I’m feeling pizza right about now.”

“Tony, it’s eight in the morning,” he responds with a shake of his head.  Someone is clearly not in the right time zone.  His assumption is immediately confirmed when Tony’s eyes shift down and to the right, in what Steve has come to know as his “thinking face.”

“Oh.  Right.  I knew that.”  And that’s his spaced-out voice.

“How long have you been awake?”

“That’s an unfair question,” Tony insists, and Steve has his answer.

“How is that an unfair question?” he shoots back.

“It’s not my fault I can’t sleep on planes!”

“And how long were you awake before you got on the plane?”

“Irrelevant,” Tony insists stubbornly, with all the grace of a petulant five-year old.  Steve’s interest in Tony’s sleeping patterns (or lack thereof) jumps.

“How long have you gone without sleep?”  When Tony refuses to answer, he’s forced to take drastic measures.  “JARVIS?”

“Mr. Stark has been – ” JARVIS starts.

“Hey!” Tony cuts in.  “You two are not allowed to collude.  It’s bad enough when Pepper does it!”

“She’s probably just looking out for you,” Steve insists, grateful that at least one other person is attentive to Tony’s behavior.  He doubts, though, that she’s any more successful than he is at modifying Tony’s bad habits.

“Yeah, that’s something she tends to do.”  Tony stays silent for a few moments before adding on softly, “I talked to her about you.”

Steve immediately forces his face into a neutral expression and works to keep his tone as level as possible.  “Really?  What did you say?”

“A lot.”

 _Because that’s really helpful, Tony_ his brain supplies.  A lot could mean anything.

“Mainly,” Tony carries on, his own voice giving away nothing, “she was upset that she hadn’t heard about you sooner.”

“Uh huh.”

“According to Pepper, we’ve been dating for about three months.”

“Huh.”   _Stick to the monosyllables.  Monosyllables are safe._

After a prolonged period of avoiding his face, Tony finally looks up from the ground, his eyes meeting Steve’s with a thousand unanswered questions.  Steve forces himself to meet that gaze, not willing to cede an inch in whatever mental standoff their engaging in.

Tony breaks first.  “She’s not wrong,” he concedes.  “We sort of have been, just not the type of dating that I have any experience with but possibly might like, considering how everything has gone so far even though I still don’t know if that counts as _dating,_ dating – ”

“Tony,” he cuts in.

“Yes?”

“You’re babbling.”  Although he hopes that babbling is indicative of good things.

“Right,” Tony answers, giving the room over to an awkward silence.

Okay, it’s is turn.  He mentally braces himself and then starts talking.  “I agree with Pepper, though.  And you.”  Tony face has effectively frozen, but he forces himself to keep going.  “We sort of have been…” _Dating.  Daaaatinnng.  Why is it so hard to say the word?_ “...getting closer for a while now, and I like where it’s going.  We’re just sort of horrible at getting things out in the open.”

There’s a moment when he thinks he’s gone too far – silence in the room is deafening – but he allows himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t screwed everything up.  He’s just about to say something when Tony _finally_ moves.

The other man crosses his arms over his chest, but there’s a smile on his face as he leans back against a nearby countertop.

“We suck at this,” he asserts, sounding both amused and incredulous at the same time.

“We definitely suck at this,” Steve echoes, and isn’t that an understatement?

“That’s that then,” Tony says with a terse nod of his head.  ‘Come on.”

“What?”  Steve tilts his head, as if the motion will clue him in on some crucial detail that he’s missed.

Tony on the other hand, seems to know perfectly well what’s going on.  “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right.  I’m taking you out.  Dinner, movie.  All the stereotypical first datey things.”  His hands give an awkward little wave over the last part, as if the aforementioned ‘things’ could be summed up with superfluous fluttering.

“What?” he cuts in.  His heart gives a quick jolt at the words ‘taking you out,’ but he doesn’t think Tony’s thought this one all the way through.  “Tony, it’s ridiculously early.  The only things open right now are coffee and donut shops.”

Tony’s eyes blink in rapid succession.  “Both of those sound really good right now.”

“You need sleep more than you need caffeine and sugar.”

“ _Lies_ ,” Tony hisses, although it sounds more as if he’s saying it to be contrary than in any actual sincerity. In fact, he’s not even sure that Tony’s mental faculties are running at one-hundred percent at the moment, but that’s still not going to keep him from making sure Tony holds up to his end of the bargain.  Tony said date, and dammit, he’s getting his date.

He takes a deep breath and tries to think of a justification that will resonate with Tony’s sleep-deprived brain.  Facts.  Tony likes facts, at least when they work in his favor.

He puts on his most sincere face, and starts talking.  “Rain check?”  Tony’s eyes dim just the smallest bit, and Steve scrambles.  “Look, I’m sort of late for work, and you’re desperately in need of rest.  Besides, this way you’ll have more time to plan.”

It takes Tony a moment to answer.  “True,” he finally breaks out, but his eyes still look really devious.

“I mean _sleep_ , Tony.  No power napping, no phone calls, and no secretly working on your StarkPad when you’re supposed to be resting.”

Tony snorts, “It’s like you know me.”

“More than you think,” he answers back fondly.

Tony’s head tilts downward, and he mumbles something softly under his breath.  Without his enhanced hearing, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make out Tony’s muttered words:   _Not as well as you think._

Steve internally bristles at that; he absolutely loathes it when Tony tries to put himself down, but he can’t exactly react to something he’s not supposed to hear.  He’s going to break Tony out of that self-depreciating mindset if it’s the last thing he does.   

He stands quickly, muscles bristling at the sudden movement, and reaches for his bag.  After all the times he’s ribbed Clint for being late, he’s going to catch hell for not showing up on time for training.  Still, if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t change a thing.  “In that case then, I’ll see you tonight.”

“It’s a date.”

Something inside Steve thrills at the word.  “Yes,” he answers back softly.  “Yes, it is.”  He starts to make his way outside of the lab, but the conversation seems…unfinished somehow.  Quickly, before he can rethink anything, he turns and places one, brief kiss on Tony’s cheek.  He then turns and makes his way out of the lab at the upper threshold of human speed, his face turning bright red all the while.  

***

It takes him far longer than it should to recover from Steve’s dramatic exit.  Well, it wasn’t really that dramatic.  It was just a kiss, on the cheek no less, something that hundreds of people have done over the past four decades.  Still, it’s something else when it’s coming from Steve.

Truth is, everything’s different when it’s coming from Steve. He’s smart and he’s gorgeous and he has this really dry sense of humor that bounces really nicely off of his own.  Not to mention the fact that he’s one of very few people that seem to _expect_ something from him.  Despite his supposed role as a ‘liaison’ – and really, they should just drop that title, because Steve’s _horrible_ at it, he still never gets the impression that Steve’s leveraging him for anything.  Despite his huge, star-spangled secret, he’s just a genuinely good person.  Turns out, all that honor and bravery and self-sacrifice rhetoric that his dad spewed at him for years had some basis in fact, although by now he’s pretty sure he can credit that to Steve himself rather than his ultra-patriotic double.

No, the problem isn’t that Steve is Captain America.  The problem is the Captain America is _Steve_ , and Steve is a person he really wants to keep in his life.  Consequently, however foolhardy the decision may be, he needs to come out and fess up about his knowledge of their secret superhero lives (Christ, it even _sounds_ corny.)  But Pepper’s right; you can’t exactly build something real on a weak foundation.  If he wants something genuine – and, scarily, he does – he needs to lay all his cards on the table.

However, that doesn’t mean he can’t royally butter Steve up first.  If he’s going to drop that massive truth bomb on Steve, then he’s going to make sure it comes at the end of a night that makes him want to stick around.  All he has to do is…

Then again, he has practically zero experience with planning a meaningful date.  He’s been on a lot of first dates – some might say too many – but he very rarely intends to see those out to date number two.  Moreover, he doubts Steve would approve of his typical romantic activities, considering his usual mode of operation is to throw money at something and see what sticks.  Steve still insists on alternating the lunch bill; he’s hardly going to appreciate an elaborate display.

Somewhat desperate, he pulls out his phone to start googling while simultaneously speaking aloud.  “JARVIS, what do normal people even do on a first date?”

“I believe Agent Rogers’ explicitly instructed you to rest.”

“Since when do you take Steve’s side on everything?” he asks, somewhat disgruntled at his AI’s extreme unhelpfulness.

“Since he’s more capable of looking after your wellbeing.”  Well that was just all kinds of unfair.  JARVIS, though, persists with his misinformation but shifts his approach.  “You will be in no condition to woo Captain Rogers if you are functioning with diminished brain capacity.”

“My brain is never diminished.  It’s beautiful.” And seriously, _woo_?  That sounds like something far too-old fashioned for him to be taking part in. Or maybe it’s British?  British and old-fashioned?

“Please sleep now, Sir.  In the meantime, I will compile a list of appropriate courtship activities.”

On second thought, he is the tiniest bit groggy, and, as much as he hates to admit it, JARVIS kind of has a point.  He’s going to be of no use tonight if he crashes right in the middle of their date, and, considering their lousy track record, that’s probably a distinct possibility.  And that couch looks really comfy…

Without bothering to remove his jacket or his shoes, he plops down on the sofa.  He’s got this.  Or rather, JARVIS has got this, and he can work out the details later.  He is a genius, after all.  All he has to do is plan the perfect date, execute it, and then find a way to tell Steve about their dual secret identities.  Easy, right?

* * *

When JARVIS has first suggested the MET, he’d laughed his ass off.  He can mentally recall, in excruciating detail, every single time he’s been forced to go to some sort of fundraiser inside of the museum where he’s been forced to look at a single dot and relate it to the existential quandary of the human existence.  So deep.  So moving.

On second thought, though, JARVIS’ recommendation made a lot of sense. Steve _likes_ art, and, if his nasty-if-not-entirely-inaccurate little caricature is any indication, he draws himself.  So long as Steve’s happy, he resigned himself to putting up with anything for a couple of hours.  After all, the goal of the evening is to get Steve in as good of a mood as possible so he has a reason to stay.  For that, he can put up with a few hours of boredom.

To his infinite shock, he actually has a good time, and not only because Steve’s there with him.  Someone out there has crafted the only possible exhibit that would catch his interest: “Picturing Math.”  The assembled pieces were compiled from the Met’s collection of drawings and prints and were meant to demonstrate the way in which 15th century artists engaged with geometry to improve their understanding of composition.  Steve gets to explain all of the reasons why math helped change modes of artistic representation, and he gets to talk about a NASA colleague who's implementing origami into satellite design.  As they leave the museum, he mentally contemplates having Pepper contact the museum curators about buying that Durer print.  He can’t wait to see the look on her face when he approaches her about buying art.  On _purpose._  Which he discovered on a _date_.  That he initiated _himself._

Most importantly though is that he can safely count the night a success, because Steve’s still carrying on about the exhibit as they make their way down the steps.  

“…and did you see the one with the eye?  Granted, the biology’s a bit off, but for a fifteenth-century print they got a heck of a lot right.”  It’s a testament to how smitten he is that he’s genuinely amused by Steve’s language.  Only Steve could use the word ‘heck’ and make it sound cute.

He turns to look at Steve.  “It’s not that late.  You want to walk back?”

Steve smiles.  “Sure.”  Then to Tony’s ultimate surprise, Steve inches closer and lets the tip of his index finger brush against Tony’s own in an obvious invitation.  He wraps his fingers around Steve’s, trying desperately not to freak out about _hand-holding_ for Christ’s sake.  It’s one of the oldest clichés in the book, but to his infinite surprise, he’s…enjoying it?  Huh.

They pass a few moments in leisurely silence when something strange catches his eye.

The MET sits in the northeastern corner of Central Park, so, in suggesting that they walk back to the tower, he’s inadvertently taken them back through the sight of their battle a couple of weeks prior.  While the city has dealt with the most obvious obstructions, it’s still going to take time for them to clear away the 100+ statues that just decided to up and walk away from their assigned spots.  Hence, the rearing bronzed horse poised just off the side of the path and sectioned of by yellow caution tape.

Steve looks up and down and the statues, and Tony can tell what he’s thinking.  The giant oversized horse looks bizarre without its traditional pedestal.  “That’s…different,” he offers.

Tony shrugs.  “It’s taking the city a while to recover from the intergalactic wrecking ball.  Construction crews are hauling away things bit by bit, but I don’t think cleanup’s a priority at the moment.”

Steve looks a bit forlornly at the displaced statues.  “Are they planning on rebuilding?”

“I think so.  But there’s a bit of a debate over whether or not the city should try and recreate the pieces or commission new ones to support new artists.  Certain figures don’t wear well over time.  Tearing the statute down is one battle; rebuilding it is a whole nother issue.”

Steve’s eyebrows draw together as his eyes turn contemplative.  “I don’t know where I fall on that one.”

“Not everything’s that clear-cut.  I think they’re going to try to restore the ones that aren’t in pieces and then seek donations for the empty pedestals.  I thoroughly expect the mayor’s office to come knocking any day now.”  Because clearly, he doesn’t have enough things to pay for.

“Any thoughts on what you’d want?”

“Other than like 18-foot statue of yours truly?”

Steve cocks an eyebrow.  “Be serious, Tony.”

He secretly loves and hates that Steve can see through that bluff.  Rather than give an honest answer, he changes the subject.  Kind of. “There’ve been talks of commissioning a statue of the Avengers.  I think they’re planning on calling it ‘Guardians of the Park,’ or something equally cheesy.”

It’s funny, because if the whole thing goes through, there’d be recreations of _both of them_ smack dab in the middle of New York City.

Steve doesn’t seem like he’s on board, though.  “That seems like a horrible decision,” he says with slight distaste.

“Why?”

“People shouldn’t be valorized simply for doing the right thing,” he stares off into the distance for a moment before comes back to the present.  “Besides, what if it all happens again?  Someone comes back, brings these things to life again, I’d hate to see the damage a ten-foot-tall indestructible Natasha could inflict.”

Oh, shit.  Yup, that could be…bad.  Although he’d like to think that a sentient Iron Man statue could hold his own.  He very nearly gets into the mental conundrum how an animated statue Iron Man would match up against the real deal, when he finally takes stock of what Steve said.  Steve didn’t specify himself or Thor or Hulk as the greatest threat.  He pinpointed…

“Natasha.  You mean Black Widow?”

Steve tenses, but he doesn’t stop talking.  “Yeah.  Sorry, I’ve just gotten used to using her name instead of her call sign.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so close.”  

“I haven’t known her that long, actually.  But she’s been really helpful helping me adjust to things since I got back stateside.”

Something inside Tony cringes just a bit.  It’s true, but it’s not the _full_ truth, which seems to be the slogan for their relationship.

No more.

There doesn’t seem to be a better way to transition to the whole ‘I know-your-secret’ part of the evening, so Tony allows himself a brief moment of panic before charging full steam ahead.

“She used to work for me, you know.”  He tries to keep his voice from reflecting sheer, internal terror.

Steve rotates a bit to look at him, but Tony can feel the muscles flex up in his arm.  “Natasha” he asks, voice equally calm.  “Yeah, she mentioned something like that.”

Now for the double speak.  “She worked in legal for a while, and she was pretty good at it, too.  It wasn’t until later, after shit started going down, that I realized that she was a SHIELD operative.”  He lets that sink in for a moment.  “At first, I was pissed.  Like _really pissed_.  But over time I started think about how hard that must be, living with all of those secrets, never being able to tell anyone who or what you really are.”

There it is.  That’s the bait.  Now all that’s left to do is for Steve to pick it up and they can talk feelings and shit.

Except Steve has frozen up like he is one of those dumb statues.  The happy art-geek of a few minutes ago has disappeared and been replaced by someone rooted to the spot.  Just when he thinks he’s, you know, _broken Steve_ , the other man starts to talk.

“I think Natasha has her reasons,” he says softly.

“Good reasons?” he rebuts, though not unkindly.  He waits a couple more moments before giving up.  So much for the subtle approach.  It looks like he’s just gonna have to come straight out with the truth.  Metaphors don’t seem to be their strong suit.

That should probably wait until they get back to the tower though.  If Steve’s current reaction is any indication, this is not a discussion that needs to go down in public.  Not to mention it gives him a bit more time before the death knell.

He lets go of Steve’s hand and starts wandering toward the statues along the side of the street.  Keeping his voice buoyant, he starts joking.  “Either way, I still don’t want a giant bronze Black Widow chasing me around.  Although, this guy seems to have done his fair share of damage.”  He gestures toward the rearing horse along the side of the path.  Why is a horse doing in Central Park?  What did the horse do to deserve a statue?  Did it buck off a rider?  Is there some general somewhere on the other side of the park sans horse? He grabs hold of the yellow caution tape enclosing the figure and hoists it over his head.   

“I don’t think you should go back there,” Steve warns, at last breaking out of his momentary fugue and getting involved in the proceedings.

“Steve, if I listened to everyone who told me I shouldn’t do something, nothing would ever get done.”  He stares at the horse, which is fucking huge this close up.  Not only is the stallion larger than life, but it’s rearing on its back legs in a way that would be nearly impossible to cast without magic.  It’s easily twelve-feet tall and who knows how heavy.   

Tony circles the statue, if only for a momentary distraction.  “Lordy, this thing is terrifying up close.”

“It’s probably meant to be,” Steve says, and his voice sounds much closer than Tony thought it would be.  It looks like the boy scout decided to bend the rules a little bit and sneak under the caution tape.  “Horses can be nasty when provoked.”

“Pretty harmless now, though.”  Tony knocks firmly one of the horse’s withers as if he’s rapping on a door, and that’s when it happens.

Apparently, the NYPD knows what they’re doing when they place their caution tape, because that horse is nowhere near steady enough to remain freestanding.  His brief contact, which hadn’t been all that powerful, is enough to set the statuary swaying on its hind legs and the giant rearing figure teeters on its hind legs.  The momentum carries the horse briefly backwards, but the recoil swing is enough to shift the weight to the overly-heavy front section, and the giant figure starts to topple, too unsteady to remain upright any longer.

Tony has nearly died on a frankly incredulous number of occasions now, so he knows that whole life-flashes-before-your-eyes thing is total BS.  However, that doesn’t stop his brain from cataloging what happens next in minute detail.

There’s not enough time to clear the statue – he’s not that fast without the suit – but if he moves quickly he can probably clear enough of the crash site to avoid impending death.  Maybe.  He’s got like a 50-50 chance.  Best case scenario, he’s non-fatally impaled by a hoof.  Can one be non-fatally impaled?  He really doesn’t want to find out.

Turns out, he won’t have to.  One moment, he catches a brief flash of blue in the corner of his eye, and the next he feels a rough pair of hands pushing him to the side.  He rotates as he hits the ground, both to mediate the impact and to look back at whatever’s going on behind him.

For a fraction of a second, he think’s Steve done something horrifically noble, like sacrificing himself to save Tony’s life.  It's definitely within the man’s character, and it seems like a horrible, frustratingly Steve thing to do.  Fortunately, his brain kicks in and remembers, oh yeah _,_ Steve is Captain America, so the story is less _Steve is getting crushed by a falling horse_ and more _Steve is lifting the giant horse statue over his head._

So…that.  Good news is, he’s not going to die.  Bad news is, that whole secret identity reveal timetable just got moved up a bit.

He stands very carefully to avoid adding any more stress to an already tense situation.  Very slowly, he circles around so he’s in Steve’s line of sight.  “So,” he starts, “that’s interesting.”

Holding up a statue that’s got to be at least over a thousand pounds seems to require very little of Steve’s attention.  Instead, he rotates his head to look at Tony, his eyes blown wide with panic.  “Tony, I – ”

“Not here,” Tony cuts in.  This is not a conversation that they need to have in public, particularly while Steve is performing inhuman feats of strength.  “Just put that thing down before anyone sees.”

Steve shifts his attention back to the metal horse currently braced in his hands, as if he’s somewhat surprised to find it there.  It would almost be funny if it weren’t for the massive amounts of tension he was radiating.  He lowers the statue quickly but with complete control, laying the sculpted horse down on its side to avoid any further mishaps.  He wipes his hands on his pants as he finishes, partially in an attempt to brush off the dust but also, Tony thinks, as an excuse to avoid making eye contact.

“Come on, let’s just…we’ll talk about this in private.”  He quickly jerks his head toward the edge of the park, where there’s bound to be some taxis waiting.  The sooner they get everything out in the open, the better.  

* * *

The ride back to Stark Tower is one of the longest, most awkward events of his life.  Tony steadfastly avoids his gaze, preferring instead to spend his time looking out the taxi window to the familiar streets of New York, which leaves Steve to mentally break down in silence.

Tony knows.   _He knows_ , and Steve didn’t get the chance to tell him about it first.  He doesn’t quite know if Tony’s made the connection between super strength and Captain America, but given that brain of his, it’s only a matter of time.  Christ, the man was just talking about how much he’d been hurt by SHIELD double agents!  How much worse is it going the be this time, when he’d actually tried to start a relationship with someone?  This cannot bode well.  At all.

Tony passes the cabby a probably over generous wad of cash, and Steve dutifully follows him inside.  He at least owes Tony the chance to tell him off properly, no matter how painful the experience may be.

He follows Tony past the doorman, through the expanse of the lobby, and over to the familiar bay of elevators that he’s ridden a hundred times before.  It’s difficult to think that this may be the last time he’s ever welcomed into Tony’s domain.  He fully expects the elevator to glide downward, ready for that awkward jolt in his stomach and the momentary sensation of weightlessness, but, much to his surprise, Tony starts speaking.

“Top floor please, JARVIS.”  The elevator swiftly transitions upward without any of JARVIS’ usual commentary, and it only takes a couple of moments for the doors to open on the penthouse suite.

To say Steve is surprised would be an understatement.  They’ve always kept their interactions to the lab, mainly because that’s where Tony spends most of his time, so he’s never really experienced all that much of the rest of Stark Tower.  He’s certainly never been inside what looks to be Tony’s bedroom.

The room is relatively minimalistic, if luxurious.  Aside from an obscenely large bed, a single nightstand, some abstract looking wall art, and a mini-bar spread out along one wall, there’s nothing much here, and the space looks less like a room and more like an extravagantly priced hotel suite.  He gets the feeling that Tony doesn’t exactly spend a lot of time in this space.  Why he’s taken Steve here, he’s not exactly sure.

Tony steps off of the elevator and heads straight towards the bar, where he proceeds to pour out two glasses of an amber looking liquid.  Tumblers in hand, extends one to Steve and gestures towards the large, glass window, where all of New York is laid out below.

“If we’re going to do this, we might as well have a view.  Drink?”  For lack of a better option, Steve takes the glass but doesn’t drink.

“I can explain,” he starts.

“Steve – ”

“I was trying to find a way to tell you, but – ”

“Steve – ”

“– I just couldn’t think of a place to start.”

“I know!” Tony cuts in, his voice finally breaking through Steve’s panicked rant.

“I wanted – you know?”  He knows what?  He can’t possibly mean –   

“Yeah Cap, I know.”

It’s the nickname that does it.  As impossible as it may seem, Tony has somehow put together all of the pieces and arrived at the right conclusion.  Still, he seems remarkably unfazed about it.  He’s calmly sipping his tumbler of scotch while Steve’s whole world falls apart.   

“How?” has asks faintly.  “When?”

“Since the Central Park invasion.”

It takes him a second to process that.   _Weeks._ Tony’s known for _weeks_ and he hasn’t said anything?  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, somewhat taken aback.  Granted, he didn’t do the right thing and tell Tony the truth either, but it’s odd that Tony would hold back something that big for so long.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he blurts out, with just a tinge of the anger that Steve’s been expecting this entire time.  He quickly tosses back the remaining liquid in his glass and exhales sharply.  When he looks back up, his always-expressive eyes are remarkably vulnerable, and this, Steve knows, this is the pivot point.

“Look, Steve, I’ve gotta know,” he starts.  “This whole thing – you coming here, worming your way into my good graces and asking me out – that’s not a SHIELD thing, right?”

“God, Tony, no!  No, I just…  I just wanted one good thing in my life,” he places the exceedingly useless glass back on the bar where it belongs, which frees up his hands to reach for Tony’s face.  He places just enough pressure on Tony’s jaw line to hold his face in place, meeting his eyes and hoping to convey just how serious he is.  “Turns out,” he continues, “that’s you.”

Whatever Tony sees in his face settles something, because one he’s staring into Steve’s eyes with a question, and the next he’s pulling Steve toward him.  Their lips meet with a quasi-violent crash, but once Tony has a moment to adjust…

This.   _This_ is what they’ve been missing all along and have subliminally been building to all of this time.  Tony tastes like scotch and someone undercurrent that distinctly _Tony_ , and it’s all Steve can do not to fall to his knees.  Instead, he settles for running his fingers back through Tony’s hair, dropping one hand to the nape of his neck and fisting the other firmly near the crown of his skull.  Tony, it would seem, approves of this move, if the groan he emits is any indication.  Steve can feel the vibrations against his lips, which _hello, yes_.  More.  More of that.  He opens his mouth, inexplicably trying to catch the last bit of the soundwaves, which Tony takes as an invitation to deepen the kiss, running his tongue along the inside of Steve’s mouth with the same meticulous attention he gives to everything he’s passionate about.  Steve hadn’t really thought about how Tony’s single-minded focus would translate to the bedroom, but now it’s all he can think about.

It comes as a shock when he feels a slight pressure on the back of his knees; apparently, Tony’s enthusiasm has been driving them backwards this entire time, and they’ve slowly shuffled toward the bed.  So much for enhanced reflex and acute attention to the surrounding areas.  Evidently, all it takes is one kiss from Tony to throw all of his concentration out the window.  He can’t say he minds.

Tony pulls back slightly when he senses they’ve stopped moving, and he raises one eyebrow in question, wordlessly seeking for permission to keep going.  Steve flashes him a small if somewhat nervous smile, and that’s all it takes.  Tony braces both hands against his chest and _shoves_ , sending him sprawling back against the dark red duvet.  He fully expects Tony to follow him, to continue on the path that they were both so thoroughly enjoying, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he braces one hand on either side of his body, and stares down at Steve with an openness that he’s never seen from Tony before.

Steve grips one of Tony’s forearms, not wanting to miss a single touch now that he finally has permission.  “How did you figure it out, anyway?  Did Iron Man clue you off?”

Tony laughs at that, the quick bark ringing throughout the room.  “In a manner of speaking,” he answers, and his voice rings with some sort of joke that Steve’s not getting.

“I don’t understand.  How’d he figure it out?”

A grin spreads over Tony’s face, and, much to Steve’s infinite consternation, Tony begins to sit up. “Okay, now’s the time where we both come clean.”

And that…doesn’t make sense.  “Tony?”

“You’re not the only one with secrets,” Tony replies, his voice deliberately dramatic voice.  Slowly, he reaches toward the scooped neck of his shirt and pulls, the fabric straining as he forces it lower and lower.

At first, Steve doesn’t understand.  If Tony was going to take off his shirt, why wasn’t he doing the sensible thing and reaching for the bottom hem?  But stripping, it seems, is not his objective, because when the shirt has traveled down past Tony’s collarbone, Steve starts to see a faint light radiating from under the material.

Startled, Steve props himself up on his elbows.  The change of angle gives him a better view of whatever it is that’s causing that glow, although his brain has trouble processing the input.  It looks remarkably like…

“Is that…Tony?”

Tony takes a deep breath, but looks him square in the eye on the exhale.  “I am Iron Man.”

“You’re Iron Man,” he repeats incredulously.

“The one and only.”

“But that’s…that’s impossible!”

“Not as impossible as you might think,” Tony assures him, and Steve mentally starts tracking everything he’s ever known about his armored teammate.  When he finally adds up all of the pieces, he turns back to Tony, shaken by the huge secret that’s been under his nose all along.

“So, it’s been you the whole time?  The Chitauri and the statues and _everything?_ ”

“Yup, all me, Tony assures.  “Brains and brawn.  Well, that and very, very sophisticated technology.”

Steve’s mind is still reeling, struggling to comprehend that his best friend and now boyfriend is also the man he’s fought aliens with _twice_.  Of course, if Tony is Iron Man, that means…

“You almost died!  You fell out of the sky.”  Steve vividly remembers that day pressing against the motionless suit, trying to find a way to pry apart the armor in order to check on the man inside.  That man was _Tony.  Tony_ who he came so close to losing.

Tony, who apparently is unconcerned about his own mortality, because he merely shrugs one shoulder in response.  “I’m aware.  I didn’t die.  I’m alive, and I’m fine, and I’m here.”

This time it’s his turn to pull Tony in, so grateful that his brilliant, stupid man is _here_ and _alive,_ and still cares for him despite the fact that he’s lied about his double life for months.  Of course, apparently Tony’s been doing the exact same thing, but they can figure all that out later.  Right now, all he cares about is Tony, the way his lips feel on top of his own and the weight of the other man on top of him.

They spend a few more moments like that, just kissing and grasping each other until Tony pulls away for air.

“So Cap,” he says, his voice equal parts teasing and seduction, “now that I’ve seen your face, how do you feel about me seeing the rest of you?

It takes Steve about two seconds to make up his mind.  He’s just about to answer yes, yes please when a sudden noise catches his attention.

The faint _crackle_ in the air is all the warning they get, before multiple points of light flash outside of the window and the city beneath plunges into darkness.

 

 


	14. Endings and Beginnings

Steve sits up quickly, his sudden movement dislodging Tony from on top of him.  “What was that?” he asks, staring out at the unusually black New York skyline.  It’s off-putting somehow, as if the absence of artificial light is in and of itself and aberration.  Oddly enough, Stark Tower seems to be immune from the sudden blackout.  The soft interior light from the room allows him to see the faintest hint of his own reflection in the glass.  Still, their own relative good-fortune does nothing to quell his concern.

“JARVIS?” Tony calls, his voice demanding an explanation.  “What happened?  Are we under attack?”

“Not directly, it seems.” JARVIS answers.  “However, power does seem to be out throughout the greater part of New York City?”

“What?”

“Why weren’t we affected?” Steve asks simultaneously.  Is the tower’s unique exclusion some odd precursor to an attack?  It seems odd to leave them with resources, though…

Tony, not JARVIS supplies the answer.  “All of Stark Tower draws its power from the arc reactor in the subterranean levels.  We’re independent of the city’s power grid, so we’re still running at one hundred percent.”  Tony stands, gazing out the dark swath below.  “I don’t understand.  What’s causing all of this?”

“It’s uncertain at this time,” JARVIS calls, “but the power failure seems to originate from somewhere in Chinatown.”

“Satellite imagery showing anything?”

“You have satellites?” Steve asks, somewhat taken aback, although by now he should really stop being surprised at the wealth of technology at Tony’s fingertips.  Tony elects not to answer and instead waits for JARVIS’ reply.

“Moving them into position now, Sir.  It will take some time to get the readings.”

“Dammit.”  The tension is palpable within Tony’s shoulders.  He runs his fingers through his already tousled hair and glances at the ceiling with nervous energy.  “Hurry J.”

Steve’s about to cut in and offer some platitude about how maybe just this once, the problem has some natural, completely innocent explanation when his phone rings.  His hopes for an uncomplicated evening are dashed when he sees Nat’s contact info flashed across the screen.

“Hello?” he answers tersely.

Natasha’s response is just as curt.  “We need you at East Broadway and Madison Street.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t know yet.  All our systems are down, and the backup generators being slow to kick in, but we had reports of a combatant in the area before the phone lines went dead.”

“On my way.”  He hangs up, confident that Natasha will update him when they get to the scene and they’ve got more information.  She’s probably already on the move herself.”  He turns to Tony as he stashes his phone in his pocket.  “Did you catch any of that?”

Tony nods.  “Enough.  Are we headed to Chinatown?”

It takes Steve a moment to process the implications of the _we_.  Of course it’s _we,_ because Tony is Iron Man and, without knowing it, they’ve been in this thing together all along.  They’re partners, now in multiple senses of the word, and as much as he’s going to hate seeing Tony throw himself into danger, this is his fight too.

“Chinatown,” he confirms.  “Natasha said – ”

His own words are cut off by JARVIS’ voice.

“Sir Agent Hill is on the line.  She wishes to inform Iron Man that – ”

“Yeah, I think we get the idea,” Tony butts in.  His face is rueful for a moment, but it quickly transforms into a look of semi-incredulous grin.  Steve’s not entirely sure the same looks not plastered over his own face.

“We have _horrible_ timing,” he emphasizes.

Tony laughs.  “This better not become a thing.  One more damn alien tries to cock-block me, and I swear to God – ”

“Tony!”

Tony stops his rant with a sigh.  “Later.  Looks like it’s time for both of us to suit up.”  He turns his head toward the balcony, but then he abruptly pivots back to Steve.  “Do you even have – ”  He immediately gets what Tony’s driving at.  “I’ve taken to carrying it around with me ever since Central Park.”  He moves toward his bag, eager to fetch the suit that’s tightly bundled at the bottom.

“The shield too?”

“No.  That’s a bit too conspicuous, but Nat should bring it to the scene.”  He rummages into the bottom of his messenger bag, at last coming into contact with the rolled-up fabric.  He quickly snaps his wrist, causing the familiar colors to unroll, and pulls his civilian shirt over his head.  His hand reaches back in for the uniform pants when he realizes that Tony is being uncharacteristically silent.

He turns his head back over his shoulder only to find that Tony is staring at him, and, much to his chagrin, he feels his face heating up.  It wasn’t like he’d never stripped down in front of anyone before; Army life quickly robbed him of any pretensions of modesty.  But to the best of his knowledge, no one he’d undressed in front of before stared at him like that wanted to rip those clothes right back off.  He mentally shakes himself and reminds himself that _now is not the time._

“Tony,” he admonishes, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.  He thinks he at least partially succeeded, because Tony’s breaks his stare.

“Uh…right.”  He turns and walks toward the balcony.  “JARVIS?”

“Summoning the Mark VIII, Sir.”

For a moment, he doesn’t understand exactly what’s going on, since he’s pretty sure the Iron Man suit are housed in the basement, but after a few seconds he hears the noise that sounds awfully like repulsor blasts.  The next moment, a section of the floor slides aside to reveal some sort of tunnel, and a flash of red whizzes by him and latches firmly onto Tony’s. Various other crimson and gold pieces follow, all buzzing by and attaching to some part of Tony; within seconds the other man is encased in the Iron Man suit, although he this one has a few upgrades he hasn’t seen before.

Turns out, Tony may not be the only one with an appreciation for a uniform.

He shakes himself out of that train of thought to avoid sounding like a total hypocrite.  “Right,” he nods.  “I’ll meet you there?”

Tony shrugs, which looks slightly odd when he’s inside the armor.  “Want a ride?”

It takes him a moment to connect the deeper, slightly automated voice with Tony’s usual drawl.  When he finally gets to the content from what Tony’s just said, he glances at the armor in confusion.  Has Tony added handholds or something?

“How?” he asks.

The suit moves toward him, each step accompanied by the slight _whir_ of machinery.  Tony stop when he’s only a foot or two away.  With the suit on, he easily tops Steve by a couple of inches, and Steve finds himself in the unfamiliar position of having to look up at someone.

Tony raises one gauntlet hand and wraps it firmly around Steve’s waist.  His armor assisted strength pulls Steve forward so that their chests are nearly touching.  As Steve stumbles forward, Tony slides one mental boot underneath his foot, so it functions sort of like a platform.

“I think we can work something out,” that strange yet familiar voice croons.

Okay, so he’s definitely got a thing for the suit.  He’s somewhat grateful that Tony’s face is covered at the moment because he has a sneaking suspicion the other man is laughing at him.   _Not the time_ , his mind supplies.

Tony, thankfully, doesn’t take the easy shot.  “Hold on,” he cautions as the two of them launch into the air.  

* * *

Turns out, traveling via Iron Man is the most efficient way to travel.  They make the jaunt from Manhattan to Chinatown in a matter of minutes, although they mostly have to rely on Tony’s helmet display for navigation.  He can just barely make on the familiar landmarks in the fading sunlight; New York has never come closer to looking like a ghost town.

Tony starts their descent, and Steve grabs on just a little bit tighter in preparation for impact.

It’s clear they’re in the right when the red and blue lights of police vehicles cut the blackness.  Tony sets them down quickly, just in front of the police barricade, and Steve immediately starts looking for the rest of the team.

“I think we beat them here,” he says when he can’t find any familiar faces.

“That’s helpful,” Tony responds somewhat caustically, “considering we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

Steve’s about to snap back when a large black sedan comes barreling around the corner.  Judging strictly from the maniacal driving pattern, he thinks it’s a safe bet to assume it’s Natasha.

His guess is immediately validated when Natasha briskly jumps out of the driver’s seat and Clint and Thor emerge from the side doors.  Thor’s appearance is a bit of a surprise, since Steve assumes he would have flown, but he’s so happy to see the man that he’s not about to question his travel choices.  More importantly, he’s particularly excited to see the shield in Thor’s hands.

Clint quickly catches sight of them and motions for the group to follow, and Thor’s deep bass opens the conversation.

“Greetings Captain, Man of Iron.  It looks as if you have beaten us to our quarry.”

“Thor,” he nods and reaches for his shield.

Thor passes it over with a slight admonishment.  “You would do well to keep your weapon with you at all times.  You never know when it might be of use.”

“I don’t know,” Tony pipes up.  “A large metal Frisbee sort of stands out in a corporate setting.”

Steve can’t suppress a brief eye roll.  “Tony!”

Despite the darkness, he can see Clint’s eyes bulge wide.  “Tony?  You’re…you’re _Tony Stark?!_ ”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?”  Tony’s head rotates quickly toward the line of squad cars behind them, which luckily are maintaining their distance.  “Obviously, Birdbrain.”

“Wait, are you just now figuring this out?” Natasha adds, looking at her partner with skepticism plastered over her face.   

“You knew?!”

“Of course I knew!  It’s blatantly obvious if you think about it.”

“Not obvious enough,” Clint murmurs back.  Steve’s going to have to sympathize with Clint on this once, considering it took Tony literally showing him the arc reactor for him to connect all of the pieces.

“So wait,” the archer adds, glancing back and forth between the two of them.  “Does this mean Captain America is dating Iron Man?”

“Yes,” he and Tony answer simultaneously, which has the added benefit of taking Natasha completely by surprise.

“You’re dating?”

An absolutely gleeful expression falls over Clint’s face.  “Wait, you didn’t know?”

“I don’t know everything, Clint!” she says sharply, looking slightly flustered that she has to make the admission.

“Well, you should have,” Clint shoots back.  It’s blatantly obvious when you think about it.”

“Many happy regards on your union,” Thor cuts in.  “May we continue this conversation after our victory?”

 _Right_ , Steve reminds himself.  They are _professionals_ with a job to do, although what that job entails is still painfully unclear.  “What do we know?”

In lieu of an answer, Natasha starts distributing com links.  She pauses when she gets to Tony.

“I assume you’re already in?”

“You assume correctly.”

Steve wedges the small device into his ear and begins speaking, hoping that someone on the other end of the line will have more answers.  “Status?”

Maria Hill’s slightly staticy voice sounds out of the earpiece.  “Your assailant is on the roof of 104.”

Steve frowns.  “Just the one?  How did they manage to wipe out the entire city’s electrical power grid?”

“From what we could tell, there was some sort of blast in a basement over on Moss Street.  The fire department’s there now, but witness reported seeing a man who walked out of the flames and somehow managed to flip two cars.”

Clint frowns.  “Did you say _flip two cars?”_

“Yes,” Maria answers, clearly not thrilled at having to repeat herself.

“How?”

“We don’t know.  Witness reports are unclear.  What we do know is the power went out about two minutes later.”

"Do we know the connection?"

“Is it of this realm?” Thor inquires.  Steve obviously doesn’t know what answer would be worse.

“We don’t know,” Maria responds over the line.  “Again, I want to stress that all of this information is very preliminary.  Reports for the fire department say it looks like the basement was some kind of makeshift lab, so it could be an enhanced human.  Alien or human, this thing’s powerful.”

“We’ve never had any problems creating our own monsters,” Natasha adds, her voice weighted down with experience that Steve doesn’t even know how to contemplate, although he’s very familiar with the concept of human-made monsters.

When Maria doesn’t add anything else, Steve goes into planning mode.  “Okay, I want us to split up so we can triangulate this thing.  Clint, I want you on the roof across the street.  You get this guy in your line of sight as quickly as possible just in case things go south.  Tony, Thor, you guys fly up there and cover the north and east ends of the building.  Nat and I will hit the stairs and go in through the roof access door.   _Do not engage_ until we’re all in position.  We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so it’s best if we approach this thing as a team.”

“On it, Cap.”  Tony’s voice sounds from over his left shoulder, bereft of its usual snark.  They share a quick nod of understanding just between the two of them before Steve turns to the rest of the team.

“Let’s do this.”

Clint immediately starts running across the street, Tony and Thor take to the sky, and he and Natasha head toward the specified building.  He feels a brief pang of conscience when he shatters the lock on the door with his shield, but he’ll be supremely thankful if that’s the most damage that gets done tonight.  He and Natasha have just located the staircase when panic breaks out over the com link.

Steve can briefly make out Thor’s yell and Tony’s familiar _shit_ , but most of their message is garbled by static.

“I said do not engage!” he screams out, knowing in his head that it’s too late.

“We’re not the ones who started it!” Tony’s voice echoes back.  The last word is strangely clipped, as if he’s been cut off abruptly.

“Iron Man?  Iron Man what’s your status?”

“I’m alright,” he answers, back though the pause is too long for Steve’s comfort.  “I don’t know if he’s alien or not, but the guys shoots electricity out of his hands, and not in the friendly way that I do.”

Electricity?  Steve immediately picks up his pace, taking the stairs two and three at a time.  He has no idea how that’s going to affect Thor, considering he uses lighting as one of his weapons of choice, but Tony wears a suit made of metal, and he has no idea how the gold-titanium alloy will withstand an electrical charge.

Even moving as quickly as he can, it still takes time to climb the seemingly endless flights of stairs.  All he can do is listen in at the comlink, hoping Tony and Thor can handle everything until he gets to the roof _._

“What is your purp – ”

“Yeah, he doesn’t look like he’s up for talking.”

“Surrender or we will be forced to take action.”

“What part of ‘not talking’ did you not understand...Oh shit, that does nothing.  Throw the hammer!”

“It’s not working!”

“How did he…”

“Look out!”

Steve bursts through the rooftop door, shield at the ready, just as Thor utters his last warning.  For a moment, he cannot see anything past the rubbish scattered all over the rooftop.  There’s a clothesline and a satellite dish and a rooftop garden and tons of other things that block his vision and detract from chaos, not to mention the roof is partitioned into two different height levels with a concrete wall in-between.  He can hear the chaos coming loud and clear through the com link, but he can’t see the origin of the noise.

Just when he’s resolved to move further into the open space, a startling blue light flashes at his nine o’clock, and he springs toward the action, shield poised on his right arm but ready to be thrown if need be.

It takes him a moment to fully assess the scene in front of him.  Tony’s still airborne, but the suit looks tarnished, a bit similar to the way it looked after fighting the Chitauri.  Thor is planted on the ground, Mjolnir in hand, wielding a bolt of lightning toward a large, hulking figure.  It looks vaguely humanoid but warped somehow, as if someone had taken a wax mold of the human body, heated it and twisted it at random.

Amazingly, the lighting seems to have no effect on whatever it is they’re fighting.  Instead of being electrocuted or fried by Thor’s astonishingly bright bolt, the creature seems to be _absorbing_ the material, as if it’s feeding off the very thing that’s supposed to kill it.

Steve raises his shield.  If lighting won’t harm the thing, let’s see how well it functions without its head.  He releases the straps and rotates the shield sideways, prepping himself for a throw that’s as natural to him as breathing.  He rears back his arm, flips his wrist, and lets the projectile fly, just as Tony’s sharp _No!_ reaches his ears.  

His aim is true; unless there are extenuating circumstances, it usually is.  However, instead of careening into the creature as it should, the shield stops just a few feet in front of it, dropping to the ground with a useless clatter.

The noise prompts the figure to turn his way.  A pair of solid black eyes regard him with a nasty expression, and the creature raises one of its arms.  Steve barely has time to see the faint crackles of energy before a strong arm pushes him to the ground.

He automatically shifts into a defensive posture, afraid they’ve missed some other hostile, but he drops his guard when he catches the familiar flash of red.

“It’s got some sort of electromagnetic force field,” Tony says, his voice somewhat breathless over the earpieces.  “Nothing solid gets through.”

“What about the thing with the lightning?”  Somehow, he has the feeling he’s not going to like the answer.

“Doesn’t faze him.  If anything, he _absorbs_ it and redirects the energy.  The process slows him down for a second, but this thing just seems to get stronger with whatever we throw at it.”

Steve risks a quick look over the barricade.  Thor seems to have given up trying to use the lightning as a weapon and instead has recourse to hand to hand combat.  His hammer reigns down numerous blows, but they don’t seem to be having any effect.  The creature answers back with tendrils of electricity, but Thor doesn’t react.  Whether he’s immune to the shock or just has a very high pain tolerance, Steve can’t say.  Either way, he doubts Thor can maintain the standoff for very long.

“I’m in position,” Clint’s voice resounds over the link, and Steve risks a brief glance toward the archer’s perch.  He can just barely make out a small figure prone on a neighboring rooftop.  “Tell Thor to put some space between them, and I’ll try to take this guy down.”

“I’m at the top of the stares.  I get a clear shot, and I’ll take it.  Let’s see if this thing can block from two different directions.”

Tony glances towards Clint’s direction, assumedly zooming in on the archer.  “We’re hedging our bets on the guy with the bow and arrow?

Clint allows himself a brief snort.  “Mark it down in the history books, people.  I expect a commemorative plaque when this is all over.”

“Not now!  Thor, do you copy?”  Steve presses his hand to his earpiece, naively hoping that Thor’s com link is still working despite the wealth of electricity it must have been exposed to.  The Asgardian shows no sign of acknowledgment, and Steve’s afraid that he’s going to have to physically intercede, when all of the sudden Thor shoves the creature hard in the chest.  The figure stumbles back two, three steps, and Steve’s here’s the familiar crack of gunshots coming from behind him.  A slight whistle is the only indication of Clint’s incoming arrow, but Steve has no doubt if it’s accuracy.  He turns his eyes toward the creature, hoping that at least one of the projectiles will inflict some damage.

Natasha’s bullets clatter harmlessly to the ground, stopping suddenly just as his shield did, but arrow somehow manages to break through, and hits the creature in the middle of the chest.

“Yes!” Tony shouts from beside him.  “Those arrows are aluminum tipped.  The force field probably doesn’t have that great of an effect on them.”

“Keep going,” Steve instructs, and Clint wordlessly strings, aims, and releases three more arrows.

All find their mark, and for a moment Steve allows himself to hope that they’ve found a solution.  He waits for the creature to fall over, as all possible forms of logic suggests it should, but, miraculously, the figure remains on its feet.  Instead of collapsing under the impact of the arrows, it reaches for the shafts burrowed in its chest, rips them loose, and tosses them aside.

“Fuck!” Clint yells from his distant perch.  Steve can’t help but agree.

Instead of injuring the creature at all, the bolts seem to have had the opposite effect.  It rears back in anger and, extending its hands to their longest possible, reach, emits a nearly blinding blast of electricity that has Steve diving behind the barrier.

He turns to Tony, hoping desperately that the engineer has some better idea.  “Thoughts?”

“Okay, let’s think about this logically.  What counteracts electricity?”

He takes a moment.  “Water,” he finally offers back.  Simplistic, but it’ll get the job done.

Tony seems to think otherwise.  “Unless anyone’s recently developed water powers, that’s not going to work.  Other options?”

Steve racks his brain, not only for alternative solutions, but for ways in which the might be able to introduce water into the scenario.  They’re outdoors, so a sprinkler system’s out of the question.  Fire hydrants are street-level, and there’s hardly a convenient lake nearby…”  He stops, turning to Tony swiftly.  “The East River’s less than a mile away.”

It’s impossible to read Tony’s face in the suit, but he can feel the other man mulling it over.  “That could work.  I could fly him over, drop him in, and _bam._ No more Mr. Electro.”

Steve runs his eyes over Tony’s armor.  “Is that going to be safe for you?”

“I reinforced it after our little Shakespeare in the Park episode.  It basically acts as a Faraday Cage, so long as the charge remains reasonable.  For that short of a distance, if I move quickly enough, I’ll be fine.”

Steve gets the feeling there’s something Tony’s not telling him, but at this point, they’re running out of options.  “Okay, so you just need to grab him?”

“Well, a distraction would be nice, if only to keep me from getting electrocuted on the way in.”

Steve briefly considers asking Clint to fire another arrow, but it’s too risky, not while Thor is that close to the target.  He casts around for other options.  There’s got to be something here that can be repurposed…

Tony looks at him skeptically when he grabs the garden rake that’s been laying a foot to their right.  “A rake, really?  You’re going to fight this thing off with a rake.”

“No.”  He brings the handle swiftly down across his knees, neatly splintering the head from the shaft.  He’s left with a sharp, wooden stake about five feet long, which is nicely jagged at the end.  “But this won’t conduct electricity, will it?”

Tony nods in understanding, and Steve shifts his weight to the balls of his feet.  “On my mark, we move forward.  I throw, you grab, that thing goes right in the East River.”  Tony remains silent, but the repulsors in his palm roar to life.

Makeshift spear in hand, Steve starts his countdown.  “Three, two, one…”

* * *

 

Tony pulls out from behind the barrier the moment that Steve finishes counting.  He doesn’t even bother to glance at Steve, since Cap’s going to skewer that thing or die trying.  Instead, he waits for the telltale flash of brown wood, using that as his signal to fly forward and grab the crazy stupid electro-thing that he still has no idea why they’re fighting.

The moment he latches onto one of the creature’s arms, he can feel the shock reverberate through his entire system, and he prays that he makes it through this in one piece.  He hadn’t exactly been one-hundred percent straightforward with Steve.  Yes, theoretically the armor’s a Faraday cage, but in all likelihood, this thing is channeling too much energy for that fact to make much of difference.  His best bet is to get this thing out over the open water as quickly as possible before the suit’s systems short-circuit and he loses power.  He only feels like falling to his death once, thank you very kindly.  

Whether the creature has some form of consciousness or just an animalistic preservation instinct, Tony doesn’t know, but it immediately senses that the flying red thing is a serious threat.  It bucks, trying desperately to break his hold, and for a moment the suit bobs in mid-air.  Oh, no.  That’s not happening.  He kicks the thrusters into maximum overdrive, and he bursts into the air, captive in hand.

Their adversary, though, seems to have one last surprise left in him.  He feels a brief hum of electricity, the precursor to a lord knows what, before the creature lets loose a giant wave of electric energy.

Every instinct in his body is screaming for him to let go.  His limbs feel like they’ve been fired, damaged irreparably beyond the point of any further use, and the display screen swims before his eyes.  Ironically, or maybe just because body hates him, his joints are locked into place, incapable of any further movement and forced to hang on to the very thing that's giving them so much pain.

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice sounds from the HUD display, “systems at thirty-eight percent.”

“Keep going!”  He screams to his artificial audience of one.  If he’s going to go through all of this, dammit, he’s going to see it through!

At first, he thinks it’s his imagination, but after an interminable length of time, he finally catches sight of the river.  The blue-black waters are easily one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, all the more so for the promise they hold.  Just a little bit further.  Just a little bit more and it’s all over.

He makes sure to fly out far enough, each second of pain an added assurance that this bastard won’t make his way back to land.  He waits till he’s in the middle of the river, smack dab over the deepest part before he moves to disengage his fingers, only to find that his hands won’t budge.

“JARVIS,” he yells, “force release,” and, to his ever-lasting relief, the leaden figure falls from his hands.

He didn’t know a river could have veins.  Sure, he’s just recently discovered that the water is absolutely beautiful, but he had no idea that the water itself could have a heartbeat and a living pulse.  That all changes the moment the creature hits the water.  One last electric pulse illuminates the entire bay, flooding the river with all of the light and energy that’s been drained from the city.  It’s beautiful, in a macabre sort of way, if only for the conclusion it represents.  

At times like these, he’s grateful for the suit.  Encased in armor like he is, no one can see him shaking, either from nerves or exhaustion or both.  

“JARVIS,” he starts, his voice worn but with threads of relief, “we got enough power to fly back?”

“I believe so, Sir.  The suit will need extensive repairs once you return home, but you should be good in the meantime.”

“Fabulous,” he answers, and for once there’s not a trace of irony embedded in that word.  

It takes him a surprisingly short amount of time to make his way back to Market Street.  It probably only seemed like forever when he was carrying around a giant shocky thing, but you know what people say; perspective makes all the difference.  He fully expects everyone to be waiting for him on that rooftop, and yet, to his infinite surprise, the space is empty.  

He opens up the line to the comlink.  “Um, guys, who moved the party?  I just dropped the world's most elaborate sparkler, and I’m sort of feeling underappreciated.”

“Tony…”  Natasha’s voice answers back hesitantly, and he’s never heard Black Widow sound that soft before.  “You’d better get down here.”

Tony quickly shifts his attention to the HUD, wordlessly instructing it to scan for any and all signs of the Avengers.  It takes only a second to find them.  Thor’s bulk is easy to spot and Clint’s visible just by virtue of standing next to him.  Natasha is easier to spot, mainly because she’s in black and she’s kneeling on the black asphalt.  That just leaves Steve.

It’s not until Natasha shifts that he catches sight of the blue uniform.  Steve’s form is almost indiscernible against the pavement, and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s lying down... _Why is he lying down?_

Tony descends so quickly that resultant g-force almost causes him to pass out.  When he lands, he careens into the ground without his usual grace, causing a sizable fracture in the pavement, but none of that matters now.  All that matters is getting to Steve and figuring out why he’s not moving.  

Natasha wisely retreats as he moves forward, and it’s all he can do to keep from gasping out loud.  Steve’s not moving because he’s not conscious.  No, more than that, he’s not _breathing_.  In fact, the vitals readings on his display show no signs of life at all:  no breath, no pulse, no heartbeat.  

Unwilling to accept what his tech his telling him to be true, Tony rips at the clasp of his helmet and throws the offending piece aside with a vehemence that he’s never before shown to his armor.  Steve his _fine._ He has to be fine!

It’s not until he reaches down to cradle Steve’s head that he notice the most damning detail of all; Steve’s not wearing his cowl.  Captain America _always_ stays masked in public, always maintaining the illusion of a selfless figure poised to serve the greater good.  This isn’t Captain America right now.  This is Steve, whose mouth is currently leaking blood and who’s temple is marred by an obscene gash over his right eye.  

He can distantly hear Natasha’s voice offering explanations in the background.   _The last blast caught him square in the chest.  He was unconscious before he went over the side.  Most likely didn’t feel anything_.  None of that matters though, because it’s not true.  

He holds on the back of Steve’s hand, but he moves the other to his shoulder, ready to shake the man into consciousness.  “Steve!” he yells, his voice a croaking parody of its usual self.  “Wake up!”  Shake.  “Don’t you do this to me.”  Shake.  “Not now.   _Not now!_ ”

After a good thirty seconds of yelling at Steve’s inert figure, Tony finally loses it.  He can feel the tears running out of his eyes, but none of that matters now because Steve is dead and gone and never coming back.  All the promise of what might have been is growing cold on some lonely street in Chinatown, gone before it even has a chance to get off the ground.  

He should stand up.  He knows that.  This is not what Steve would have wanted, and it’s certainly not going to do any favors for his mental health in the long run.  He doesn’t care.  All he knows at that the minute he stands up, this is all over.  It’s as good as admitting that Steve’s dead, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to face that yet.  

Instead, he allows himself one last foolish and emotive act.  Ever so slowly, he leans down, bringing his face parallel with Steve’s and presses his lips one last time to Steve’s.

He doesn’t linger long.  Steve obviously can’t respond in turn, and he finds no appeal in kissing a corpse.  He does, however, keep his forehead pressed to Steve’s soaking up the warmth that still lingers there.

He hears someone shifting behind him, and the next moment Barton’s hand appears on his shoulder.  He brushes it aside more harshly than is strictly necessary.

“Don’t,” he barks.  And with that, he buries his face in hand.  He’s not quite crying yet, but if one more person tries to talk to him, he’s going to lose it.  Don’t they know they should just leave him alone and let him mourn in peace?

Apparently not, because the next thing he knows he feels a slight shift along his leg, and _like hell are they taking Steve away!_ His head snaps up ready to murder whoever’s dared to touch them, but, surprisingly, everyone else has maintained the proper perimeter.  He has no idea what to make of that, until an all-to-familiar voice slices through his thoughts.  

“Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

Tony’s attention gravitates toward the sound of that voice.  He’s met by a pair of stunningly blue sapphire eyes, which, while disoriented and groggy, are most assuredly _alive_.  

He means to say I love you.  He really does.  Frankly, that’s how he feel and if any experience calls for a dramatic declaration of feelings, this one does.  That’s really what he intends to come out of his mouth.  Unfortunately what emerges is...

“Oh, you sunnuva bitch!”

Steve, though he gets it.  He completely understands the three little word embedded within that unfortunate outburst, of his tiny answering smile is any indication.  “Language,” chides, though the words have no heat to them.

Tony laughs, his joy bordering on hysteria creeping into his tone.  “Yeah, that’s not gonna work.  You stick around me for any length of time, and you’re going to hear some four-letter words.” He squeezes Steve’s neck.   “And newsflash, you’re sort of required to stick around.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow.  Even nearly dead and lying on the ground, he still manages to keep that eyebrow.  “How do you figure that?”

Tony leans in, not wanting any nosy ears to overhear his next words.  “Because, Captain, you promised me a date, and we we’re rudely interrupted before we finished our first one.  It totally doesn’t count.”

“Well,” Steve answers, gripping onto Tony’s forearms and dragging himself into a sitting position.  “That settles it then.”

“Settles what?”

“Well, I have to keep living now.”  Steve smiles him, and despite the grunge and the sweat and the blood coating his face, it’s the most beautiful sight Tony’s ever seen.  “I promised you.  And, if you hadn’t heard already, I always keep my promises.”

 

 


	15. Epilogue

_Four months later_

As he steps into one of the Stark Tower elevators, Bruce Banner is seriously questioning his sanity and his life choices.

He’d promised himself that he was done with New York and all of the baggage it entails.  After the Chitauri, he’d figured he’d done his part, earned whatever atonement was left to him, and could continue his existence with the least possible amount of drama.  And yet, somehow, Stark had managed to find the one email address that he still bothered to check on occasion.  He’d followed up with weeks of annoying emails, peppered with words like _teamwork_ and _team clubhouse_ and _private lab space_ that sound good but ultimately ring hollow.  In his experience, anything that sounds too good to be true usually is.

In the end, it’s the term _presidential pardon_ that finally brings him in.  He doesn’t know what strings Stark had to pull to make that happen, but knowing that the powers that be can’t have him arbitrarily arrested under the guise of public safety gives him a measure of security that he hasn’t had in a long time.  He’s under no illusions that he’s not being watched, but better the enemy you know then the enemy you think is lurking behind the bushes, and the temporary illusion of security and Stark’s promise of a lab space is a much better offer than anything else in his immediate future. 

Not to mention, he’s tired.  Tired of running, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, tired of…well, a lot.  So he’d taken the plane ticket Stark had offered, met the driver he’d sent at JFK, and was currently standing in front of the garage elevator of the newly rechristened Avengers Tower. 

He waits a few moments before boarding the elevator, knowing that the moment he presses that button he’s committing to something he doesn’t know if he’s quite prepared for yet.  If something's attacking him, it’s easy enough to let the Other Guy do his thing, but committing to being a semi-permanent part of the Avengers is a whole other ball game with a staggering array of potential consequences.  No, it’s much easier to stand here among cars that easily cost more than his current worldly possessions than taking that final step. 

He’s just about talked himself into moving forward when a voice from the shadows startles him. 

“Dr. Banner.”

He recoils, simultaneously turning to face the noise and concentrating on keeping his heart rate down.  He really doesn’t need to trigger the Other Guy, not now when he’s so close to potential normality. 

When he sees Fury walk out of the darkness, his not quite sure whether to feel comforted or alarmed.  It seems as if he’s alone, but he trusts SHIELD about as far as his puny human self can throw them.  He clutches his backpack a bit closer.

Fury catches fingers tightening on the straps and raises one hand in what Bruce assumes to be a calming gesture.  “I promise, us being here at the same time is only a coincidence.  Your teammates just finished up a job, but they somehow neglected to check out with SHIELD before they called it quits.”

The director inclines his head toward the elevator, and the doors, as if they sense his gesture, part seamlessly.  Within moments, a cool British voice resonates from the speakers in the ceiling.

“Mr. Stark sends his apologies, Dr. Banner.  He would have met you at the airport himself, but he was unfortunately detained by the arrival of an unidentified alien species.”

“Sure,” he answers faintly for lack of a better response.  “No problem.”

“If you will step inside, I have instructions to convey you to the communal floor.”

He hesitates, but Fury, it seems, has no such compunction and steps briskly through the open doorways.  “Mind if I tag along?”

“Does it matter if I say no?”

The director lifts the eyebrow that rests above his good eye and lets the silence stretch between them.  After a long moment, Bruce steps into the elevator. 

“Take us up, please," he intones, hoping he's making the right choice.

Whatever he was expecting to find when the doors opened, this isn’t it. 

The aloof group that he met nearly a year ago have been replaced with an array of exhausted looking people sprawled out over any available piece of furniture.  No one’s doing anything productive; instead, everybody seems committed to watching some sort of sitcom that’s projected on the far wall, munching on various snack foods, and generally lounging about.  Given everyone’s damp hair and the towel turban perched on top of Thor’s head, he imagines everyone is fresh from the showers. 

Someone – he can’t see who, but he’s going to assume it’s Barton given he’s the only person whose face he can’t see – has a leg thrown up over the back of a very expensive looking sofa.  Romanoff is sitting in a slightly more formal position, her arm draped properly over the armrest of the same sofa, but her slouched posture and the pint of ice cream in her hands divest her of the gravity he expects of the Black Widow.  It’s by far the most human he’s ever seen her look.  Thor is the only one who’s giving his full attention to the television show, devoting an inordinate amount of attention to crappy puns and pre-recorded laugh tracks. 

It’s the two Avengers on the couch, though, that draw the bulk of his attention.  He recognizes Tony Stark from the plethora of science journals, press releases, and tabloid covers spread over the last two decades.  It’s only recently that he’s learned to equate the infamous playboy of New York with Iron Man, and hadn’t _that_ come as a shock.  Right now, though, he’s more concerned with the guy spread out over Stark’s lap.

He’s going to assume the blonde man is Captain America; even though he’s never actually seen the man without the cowl and uniform, he looks about the right size and shape to fill out the Captain America spandex.  Still, it’s hard to see the stuck-up World War II vet he fought with nearly a year ago with the person in front of him.  Not only is the guy so incredibly young, but he looks far too at ease draped over Stark’s knees with the other man’s fingers running through his damp hair. 

Apparently, Tony’s invitation email left out a few things. 

Everyone’s heads swivel towards them as the elevator doors swing shut.  No one immediately stands up to meet them, but the captain straightens and Tony’s eyebrows raise. 

“Bruce!”  His face dims as he catches sight of the other man.  “Fury.”

Fury nods.  “Stark.”

“What are you doing in my living room?  You don’t even go here!”

Captain America perks at that.  “I understood that reference!”  Tony smiles back at him and looks almost…proud?  Bruce would really appreciate it if someone would explain what’s going on. 

Fury ignores the back and forth and turns to address the room.  “I’m here because a certain group of superheroes didn’t bother to come to the mandatory debrief.”  He throws a particularly sharp glare at Natasha, who merely shrugs and keeps spooning ice cream out of a bowl.

“Look, oh furious one,” Tony butts in, not abashed at all, “in case you didn’t notice, we just got drenched in slime.  Sticky, green, foul smelling alien _slime._   I doubt you wanted us smearing that all over SHIELD headquarters.  Not to mention the fact that it was disgusting and got _everywhere_.  I owe my suit a long polishing session and…shut it, Barton, that’s not kinky!  Anyway, showers took priority.”

Fury levels his one eye at the scene in front of him.  “This doesn’t look like a shower to me.”

“Eh, semantics.”

Captain America smiles and turns to face Fury.  “We’ll have the report on your desk tomorrow, Sir.”

“Yeah, but _late_ tomorrow,” Tony intercedes.  “We’re definitely sleeping in.”  He accompanies the last bit with a possessive leer at the Captain, and…yep, he’s definitely missed a lot. 

“The thing about a private life, Stark, is that it’s supposed to be _private,_ "  Fury retaliates.  

“You’re in _our_ house, Mad Eye.”  Stark’s eyes take on a mischievous glint, and despite not having interacted with the man all that much, Bruce just knows he’s going to say something outrageous.  “Besides, I didn’t even mention Steve’s and my efforts to conserve water – ”

“Tony!”  Steve – because apparently Captain America’s cool with disclosing his civilian identity now – cuts in quickly, his face fire-engine red.  The remaining Avengers seem to take no heed of his discomfort; Natasha and Clint exchange a knowing look while Thor just radiates his typical good humor.  Stark looks far too pleased with himself. 

“Tomorrow.”  Fury turns, apparently satisfied with getting the last word.  He nods briefly towards Bruce with a succinct _Dr. Banner_ and then makes a beeline for the door before Stark can toss another inappropriate comment his way.  Stark takes that as his cue to cross to Bruce.

“Good to see you again,” he says, giving Bruce’s hand a quick shake. 

“Good to be here,” he answers, halfway to believing it’s true.  Tony smiles comfortingly, the smile of someone unerringly accustomed to reading a room and adjusting accordingly.

“Good to have another scientist on the team.  Maybe we can get something about space out of Thor that doesn’t involve ravens, trees, or giants that asexually reproduce by sweating.”

Thor perks up at the mention of his name and somehow manages to look smug despite his towel hat and the bag of potato chips in his hands.  “Does not one of your planet’s creation stories include a talking snake and magic fruit?”

Stark lets out a sound that Bruce is pretty sure has no literal translation aside from _disgruntled._ Instead of gracing Thor with a response, Tony turns back toward him.  “Space is _wasted_ on aliens.”  He starts walking back toward the elevator.  “Come on, I’ll show you your floor.” 

Stark – no, _Tony_ – throws an arm around his shoulder, and Bruce deliberately works not to flinch it off.  It’s the first touch he’s gotten in a long time that’s both intentional and well-meaning; he thinks he could get used to it. 

After all, there’s something comforting about not being the strangest person in the room.  If he’s going to be weird, he might as well do it among friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking through to the end! I hope you've had as much fun reading this piece as I have writing it. 
> 
> I have been so lucky to collaborate with the amazing Sicazul/xinsomniac1101x on this piece. In addition to being an amazing artist, she helped me brainstorm this thing, combed through for typos, and served as the most amazing cheerleader a writer could ask for. Be sure to check out her original art posting [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10998981).
> 
> Kudos and comments are what keeps the whole machine going. Since this work is being posted all at once, I would really appreciate any feedback you might have, either on a particular section or on the work as a whole. Feel free to voice your thoughts below, or you can find me [here](http://kdm103020.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> P.S. Stony Trumps Hate will continue to run to run until May 27. For the chance to commission some really great work _and_ donate to a good cause, check out the auctions listed [here](http://auctions.stevetony.gives).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "What Lies Behind"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998981) by [kdm103020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdm103020/pseuds/kdm103020), [xinsomniac1101x (xCapsiclexShellheadx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCapsiclexShellheadx/pseuds/xinsomniac1101x)




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